^ 


^^^SC  ''^i 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


mnrriiiiawfe- 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historicai  IVIicroreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


I 

* 

s 


fc 


f  J 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  tdchniques  at  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


s 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul6e 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


D 


D 


D 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lore  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  dt6  film^es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  ie  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  imago  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  methods  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag6es 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachet6es  ou  piqu6es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 


I      I    Showthrough/ 


Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materit 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I    includes  supplementary  material/ 

I      I    Only  edition  available/ 


□    Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillei  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6tS  film^es  d  nouveau  de  fa9on  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


12X 


16X 


M 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


ails 

du 

difier 

une 

lage 


Th'3  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  film*  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g^nirositA  de: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  AtA  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet*  de  I'exemplaira  filmA,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
fllmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimte  sont  fiimds  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dfrnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmfo  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  ime  telle 
•mpreinto. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — »-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  das  symbolas  suivants  apparattra  sur  la 
dernlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  y  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartas,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmis  A  des  taux  de  rMuction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imaget  nteessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
lilustrent  la  mAthode. 


ata 


}lure. 


: 


2X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

VOL.  I.  PRICE  76  CENTS 


yj^  ^^^i^S^~'<xv:;«5i^*i 


I-.  3E=>BR.AJR1DI,  Iss/jC.  ID- 
physician   AND  SURGEON. 

Bpeoiallta    per    le  malattle    di  dunne. 
Office  and  Besidence,  Office  Hours 

1308  ITOOKTON  STREET,  8  to  9  ».  m.  and  2  to  4  p.  ci 

Bet  BroadwftT  ud  Vallajo. 


LA      PIU'       VBCCHIA      CAS  A. 

lACCHERI   &  BACIGALUPI 

627  BROADWAY  627 

Or^TEUEFONO     883. -^ft 

SoUcau  iuiiana  che  on  «Matta  ftineraU  ohineii. 

Fre>>i  modici  e  maasima  pulizia.      Si  eseguUcono  e  forniscon  casite  di  qualiiati 
quaiits. 


_L 


is/d:. 


:oN. 

i  dunne. 

Office  Hours 
•  •■  m.  and  2  to  4  p.  ci 


lSA. 

GALUPI 

627 

huerali  oUneii. 
liKon  came  di  quaUioii 


I 


I 


JRiS(selIaHe©ys  W©fKs 


,/ 


SIGNOR  A/A.  NOBILE. 


fi 


NOVELS 
^     TRANSLATIONS 
LECTURES 


SEP     '^  •;   1  ^9  !  ' 


^<y 


OfWk'" 


/ffi'^^ 


SAN  FRANCISCO  : 

R.  R.  Pattkbson,  429  MoHxaoMBRY  St. 

1894. 


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f 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congresa  in  the  year  18!»1,  l»y 

A.  AxEKANDEB  NoBiLE,  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian 

of  Congresa,  at  Waahington 


^ 


i 


1   . 


A.  A.  NOBIIiE. 


18ill,  l»y 
rarian 


Acliilles  Alexander  Nobile.  the  author,  and  publisher  of  th^i  book 
was  born  in  Naples  on  the  13th  day  of  July  1838.  Ilia  father  was 
named  Alexander  Nobile,  and  the  maiden  name  of  his  niotiier  wau 
Fortuniita  NansA.  His  father  dying  of  Cholera  in  the  epidemic  of  the 
jear  1834,  his  mother  intermarried  with  Frederic  Sorvillo. 

He  received  his  primary  education  in  the  Institute  Moccellini  at 
Naples.  In  1843  he  entered  the  college  of  St.  Frediano  in  Lucca,  and 
remained  in  that  institution  for  eighteen  months.  He  then  entered  the 
college  of  St.  Catherine  in  Pisa.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  course,  in 
this  college  the  University  of  Pisa  conferred  on  him  the  degree  of 
Bachelor  of  Philosophy.  This  was  in  1840.  After  this  he  studied  law 
in  the  said  University  of  Piaa. 

At  19  yearg  of  age,  being  spurred  on  by  the  ambition  common  to 
spirited  young  men  he  closed  hia  books,  bade  good  bye  to  his  mother, 
and  started  on  his  travels  to  see  the  world. 

He  traveled  around  to  different  parts  until  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Crimean  war.  He  made  a  campaign  in  that  under  the  British  flag, 
along  with  the  Swiss  Legion.  On  the  close  of  that  war,  he  went  to 
South  America,  and  served  under  the  order  of  Mayor  Von  Eherenkeutz 
as  Under  Lieutenant  of  Artillery,  in  the  service  of  the  Argentine  Rep- 
nblic.  Upon  the  breaking  of  the  war  of  the  Italian  Independance  io 
1869,  he  returned  to  Italy,  and  volunteered  as  a  private  in  the  serrico 
of  his  country.  He  passed  the  grades,  and  was  nominated  Staff  Under- 
Lieutenant,  September  20, 1860.  When  the  Franco- Prussian  war  broke 
out,  he  volunteered  again,  and  served  through  that  war  under  General 
FrapoUi. 

When  not  soldiering,  he  was  in  turn  teacher,  reader  and  lecturer. 

He  arrived  in  San  Francisco  in  1889,  where  he  has  pince  remained, 
captivated  by  the  charms  of  the  city.  Here  he  has  learned  the  printer's 
art,  and  established  a  Weekly  Italian  newspaper,  entitled  the  "Vespa." 

Signor  Nobile  is  also  the  type  setter  of  this  book.  Besides  this  volume 
now  in  press,  he  is  engaged  on  and  will  publish  a  memoir  of  his  life  and 
trayals  which  must  be  very  entertaining. 


•*^- 


x. 


i^-J 


in.  Anonymous  Letter. 


T. 

THE  PUBLIC  WRITER. 

Fifteen  or  sixteen  years  acso.tho  courtyard  of  the  Holy 
Chapel  presented  quite  a  ditlereut  aspect  from  that  wl.ich 
it  now  presents.  It  is  not  because  many  changes  have  heen 
made,  or    because  the  streets   loading  to  it  have    been 
improved  or  widened.     No.     Everything  has  remained 
in  nearly  its  primitive  state.     The  wooden  wall  which 
once  enclosed  the  staircase  by  which  the  people  ascended 
to  the  corridor  communicutiu;;  whith  the  public    Hall  of 
the/rtj/^r«r«^,  though  a  little  elevated,  till  encircles  the 
old  moimment;  but  with  the  increasing  activity  which 
took   place  in  the   locality,   many   of  the  characteristic 
marks  of  old  Paris  have  gradual' y  disappeared.     Before 
the  opening  of  this  new  thoroughfare  the  court  of  the 
Holy  Chapel  was  almost  a  suburb  of  the  city  where  every 
trace  of  Parisian  society  was  lost,  one  after  another.  This 
courtyard  formed  a  little  world  by  itself,  which  had  its 
own  invariable  customs; now  noisy,  now  silent  and  always 
frequented  by  the  same  people;  early  in  the  morning  by 
the  ushers  ol  the  Supreme  Court  who  ramained  till  the 
Lour  at  which  the  referendaires  were  used  to  arrive,  by 


1 


the  clerks  of  a  lawyer's  office  situated  upon  the  treshold 
of  the  den  of  sophistry,  and  by  the  housekeepers  of  the 
neig'hborhood,  who  mingled  with  the  water  carriers  at 
the°corner  of  the  little  street  of  St.  Ann.  At  twelve  o'clock, 
when  all  was  quiet,  the  honorable  members  of  public  saf- 
ety, whose  barracks  were  not   far  off,  and  who,  without 
any  effort  of  imagination,  could  have  been  compared  to 
the  paltoniers  of  old  times,  were   used  to  come  to  warm 
themselves  in  the  sunshine.  Every  day  at  about  the  same 
time  the   courtyard   resounded  with  the   noise  of  heavy 
vans  vrhose  stables  were  at  the  northern   corner  of  the 
Corte  (I A   Conti.     At  tliis   place,  in  a  recess   behind  tho 
staircase  and  precisely  under  the  hall  of  the  first  chamber 
of  the  Supremo  Court  had  lived   for   fifteen   or  twenty 
years  a  man  called  Duverrier,  a  contractor  of  the  pris- 
oners' conveyance,  an  industry  advantageous  enough  to 
allow  him  the  gratification  of  the  luxury  of  rare   flowers^ 
which  was  his  strongest  passion.     The  entrance  to  the 
dark  cavern  which   he   inhabited,  greatly   resembled   a 
florist's  stall,  and  the  grass  which  was  growing  through 
the  pavement  prolonged   the  verdure  a  few  feet  further 
the  narrow  space  which  he  used  as  a  garden.  At  twilight, 
when  the  monotonous  silence  was  only  broken  by  the 
steps  of  the  sentinel  beneath  the  gas  burning  before   tho 
palace,  this  dimly  lighted  and  almost  deserted  place   was. 
the  rendezvous  of  the  lovers  from  the  sorrounding  streets. 
Each  morning  resembled  the  preceding,  always  the  same 
events,  and,  we  may  say,  almost  the  sume  conversations 
exchanged  by  the  same  people. 

On  account  of  the  increasing  activity  many  offices  of 
public  writers  had  been  opened  around  the  walls  of  the 
Holy  Chapel,  but  at  the  time  when  our  narrative  begins 
only  one  of  these  offices  had  remained,  and  it  was  situat- 
ed at  the  right  hand  of   the  covered  passage  leading  to 


tie  treshold 
spers  of  the 

carriers  at 
3lve  o'clock, 
f  public  saf- 
10,  without 
ompared  to 
le  to  warm 
)ut  the  same 
se  of  heavy 
rner  of  the 

behind  the 
:st  chamber 
L  or  twenty 
of  the  pris- 
LS  enough  to 
are  flowers^ 
fance  to  the 
•esembled  a 
ing  through 
feet  further 

At  twilight, 
)keu  by  the 
r  before  the 
d  place  was 
iding  streets, 
xys  the  same 
ouversations 

ny  offices  of 
walls  of  the 
itive  begins 
t  was  situat- 
3  leading  to 


the  Rue  de  la  Barilerie.  Every  morning  thei  tenant  of 
this  hole  as  big  as  a  sentinel's  box  used  to.  bang  in  the 
most  conspicous  place  a  frame  containing  many  specimens 
of  different  kinds  of  writing,  which,  profusely  decorated 
with  flourishes,  were  hardly  intelligible.  It  was  almost 
impossible  for  the  owner  to  look  at  those  testimonials  ol' 
his  calligraphic  ability  without  raising  his  eyes  to  Heaven. 
and  without  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  they  awakened  in 
him  the  memories  of  better  times,  and  sorrows  at  the 
unjust  contempt  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

On  the  four  opaques  and  dirty  panes  of  glass,  through 
which  light  penetrated  into  this  box  was  written  in  yellow 
letters:  Editorials,  Memorials,  Petitions,  Letters  of 
Compliments  for  Christmas  and  New  Years,"  and  on 
the  other  side:  "  A.  C.  Ternisien,  Ex^Professor  ok 
Penmanship  in  the  University."  Notwithstanding  the 
above  high  qualification  and  the  complete  absence  of 
competition,  one  would  infer  by  the  dress  of  the  poor 
writer  that  the  sign  produced  very  little  efiMct.  In  winter 
as  in  summer  his  suit  was  always  the  same.  A  black  silk 
sculUcap  on  which  rested  continually  a  bat,  made  water- 
proof by  a  thick  coat  of  grease,  while  as  his  auly  suit  he 
always  carried  a  thin  alpaca  coat,  the  original  color  of 
which,  together  with  its  lining,  had  ceased  :ta  be  discern- 
ible and  whose  torn  and  opened  pockets,  always  empty, 
yawned  at  pleasure,  a  waistcoat  with  metal  buttons,  a 
worn-out  pair  of  black  trousers,  shrunken  and  scarcely 
reaching  to  his  ankles,  a  very  coarse  pair  of  felt  stockings 
and  wooden  shoes  filled  with  straw,  complete  the  dress; 
and  yet,  with  all  these  rags,  Ternisien  appeared  in  no 
way  disgusting  or  repulsive,  because  in  his  countenancie 
beamed  an  honesty  .  -id  kindness  which  were  not  feigned. 
In  bim  every  one  could  recognize  a  gentleman  fallen 
from  a  better  condition  neither  brutalized'  by  misery  uur 


8 
degraded  by  druukness,  tho  vice  belonging  to  those   who 
suffer  hunger. ,  «         '  ,.    , 

His  face  and  hands  were  always  cleaner  than  his  dress; 
his  voice  was  very  melodious;  his  features  expressed 
resignation,  even  when,  as  he  daily  did,  he  was  compla- 
inincr  to  his  neigbor  Duverrier:  and  often  his  complaint 
would  have  lasted  all  day  but  for  the  arrival  of  some 
customers,  who  would  happen  to   come  and   interrupt 

them.  1  ij        + 

In  spite  of  his  excessive  economy,  his  work  would  not 
have  been  sufficient  for  his  daily  wants,  if  he  had  not 
been  the  possessor  of  a  little  capital  acquired  with   great 
pain  in  better  times,  which  was  destined  to  buy  for  him 
abed  in  some  hospital,  when  old  age,  which  was  approa- 
ching  with   hurried  steps,  should   deprive    him  of  his 
sight.     For  this  reason,  these  savings  were  sacred  to  him. 
He  considered  them  as  a  deposit  which  the  old  professor 
of  penmanship  had  entrusted  to  the  hands  of  the  public 
writer.     It  was  very  painful  to  him  not  to  be  able  to  add 
the  interest  to  the  capital.    Even  if  his  office  had  been 
richly  furnished,  or  in  a  better  location,  it  is  most  prob- 
able that  tlie  upright  Ternisien  would  not  have  realized 
profits  in  proportion  to  his  labors. 

The  poor  man  possessed  one  fault,  the  drawbacks  of 
which  were  increased  by  an  exagerated  honesty.  He  suf. 
feied  from  absent-mindedness,  and  whether  he  wrote 
from  dictation  or  he  copied,  the  orthographical  mistakes, 
the  repealed  words  which  needed  to  be  erased,  multiplied 
themselves  under  his  pen.  Always  mistrusting  himself 
and  his  want  of  attention,  he  used  to  read  over  accurately 
what  he  wrote,  making  the  necessary  corrections,  and 
when  these  were  too  numerous,  he  agam  began  his  work, 
without  adding  a  cent  to  the  stipulated  price,  not  wishing 
to  deceive  about  the  quality  of  his  work,  nor  that  customers 
should  pay  for  his  absent-mindedness. 


1086     who 

his  dress; 
expressed 
I  compla- 
3omplaint 
of  some 
interrupt 

vould  not 
}  had  not 
rilh  great 
f  for  him 
as  approa- 
im  of  his 
ed  to  him. 

professor 
the  public 
i,ble  to  add 

had  been 
iiost  prob- 
•e  realized 

awbacks  of 
'.  He  suf- 
he  wrote 
1  mistakes, 
multiplied 

ng  himself 
accurately 
jtions,  and 
a  his  work, 
lot  wishing 
t  customers 


Scruples  of  this  kind  in  commercial  transactions,  which 
ranged  from  five  to  twelve  cents,  made  him  a  real  loser 
each  time,  as  unfortunately  for  him,  his  distraction  had 
spoiled  a  few  sheets  of  ministerial  paper. 

"  Well,  sir,  what  news  ?  "  was  the  question  Ternisien 
used  to  'address  his  neighbor  Duverrier  every  time  he 
passed  his  office,  while  Duverrier  never  failed  to  answer  : 

"May  I  ask  the  same  of  you  ?  " 

In  this  way  the  conversation,  begun  with  almost  always 
the  same  preamble,  lasted  some  time.  Of  course,  as  every 
one  could  easily  underritaud,  the  first  topic  was  the  politi- 
cal situation,  which  proceeded  to  the  satisfaction  of  neither. 
These  considerations  of  high  importance  being  ended, 
they  passed  to  personal  facts.  Duverrier,  whose  business 
was  a  prosperous  one,  avowed  himself  an  optimist,  while 
on  the  other  hand,  Ternisien  looked  at  the  dark  side  of 

everything. 

"  I  am  going  to  give"you  a  piece  of  good  and  re-assur- 

ing  news." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Nothing  of  importance.  While  I  was  watering  the 
flowers,  Mr.  B.,  the  referendaire  who  is  in  the  good  graces 
uf  the  president,  approached  me  with  these  words  :  "  Mr. 
Duverrier,  you  have  very  beautiful  camelias."  For  your 
sake  1  seized  the  occasion,  and  I  took  the  liberty  of  pre- 
sonting  him  with  a  few  Tiinoleon's  bulbs  for  a  garden 
which  he  rented  at  Passy." 

"  If  you  have  done  this  in  my  interest,"  answered  Ter- 
nisieu,  "I  tliauk  you  very  much,  although,  my  good 
friend,  I  shall  bog  of  you  to  explain  to  me  what  I  have  to 
do  and  in  what  way  I  am  connected  with  this  business." 

"  You  must  have  heard  of  a  scheme  to  beautify  our 
courtvard  of  the  Holy  Chapel.  Now  guess,  if  you  can, 
what  were  the  intentions  of  these  gentlemen  ?     Now,  since 


1 


10 

I  found  you  a  protector,  I  may  tell  you  without  fear. 
Well  then,  they  intend  to  dest^-oy  your  office  and  send  you 
elsewhere  to  carry  on  your  husinoss." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  exclaimed  Ternisien  with  the  expression  of 
a  person  about  to  lose  what  he  wrongly  called  his  sup- 
porting business. 

"  Yes,"  added  the  other  ;  "  but  be  at  ease.  As  I  have 
told  you  already,  I  took  advantage  to  speak  of  it  to  Mr.  B. 
He  has  a  certain  esteem  for  me,  and  you  will  not  remove." 

Those  last  words  ought  to  have  brought  back  to  the 
lips  of  Ternisien  the  usual  smile,  but  his  thoughts  had 
fled  to  his  situation,  and  instead  of  smiling  he  heaved  a 

deep  sigh. 

"  Are  you  sorry  ?"  asked  Duverrier. 

"No,  no,  on  the  contrary  ;  again  accept  my  heartfelt 
thanks.  At  least  hope  will  be  left  to  me,  and  hope  ia 
something,  although  alone  it  cannot  enrich  us.  Listen,, 
my  friend,  now  my  profession  ia  not  worth  a  cent.  In- 
novation has  killed  us.  In  France  nothing  is  permanent. 
Every  day  brings  new  changes,  and  old  habits  are  as 
well  loved  as  cast-off  clothing.  Arts,  which  were  once 
praised,  are  now  despised.  What  good  can  you  expect 
from  such  a  state  of  things?" 

"Upon  my  word,"  answered  Duverrier,  "I  can't  und- 
erstand what  you  are  complaining  of.  For  my  part  I 
believe  innovations  are  very  excellent  indeed.  Mankind 
tend«^  always  to  perfection,  this  being  one  of  the  laws  of 
society.  For  exampla,  my  father  used  to  convey  the 
prisoners  in  cars,  which  brought  so  many  shocks  that,  at 
the  moment  of  leaving,  the  poor  men  were  obuged  to 
review  their  teeth  in  order  to  see  whether  they  had  lost 
any.  I,  on  the  contrary ,  carry  my  prisoners  in  carriages, 
so  soft,  that  they  are  as  comfortable  as  if  they  were  on 
the  best  coach.  Do  you  see  anything  bad  in  this  im- 
provement?   I  do  not. 


3ut  fear, 
send  you 

ression  of 
his  sup- 

.3  I  have 
to  Mr.  B. 
remove." 
ck  to  the 
ishts  had 
heaved  a 


heartfelt 
i  hope  i» 
.  Listen, 
sent.  In- 
snnanent 
its  are  as 
vere  once 
ou  expect 

an't  und- 
ny  part  I 
Mankind 
le  laws  of 
onvey  the 

iks  that,  at 
obliged  to 
y  had  lost 
L  carriages, 
y  were  on 
11  this  im- 


11 

"Possibly,"  said  Ternisien,  "  the  same  does  not  happen 
to  me.  When  first  I  established  myself  in  this  abode  I 
had  some  little  profit.  From  time  to  time  I  chanced  to 
have  a  good  job,  which  gave  me  time  to  wait  patiently 
and  which  made  up  for  the  days  I  was  without  work. 
Near  by,  at  the  lawyer's  office,  I  had  splendid  customers. 
When  they  had  plenty  of  work  and  wish'  1  to  enjoy  them- 
selves, they  furtively  brought  to  mo  copy  i  ng  to  do.  They 
paid  without  bargaining  and  without  a  murmur,  and 
the  work  was  easy  because  they  recommended  me  to  do 
it  in  the  most  unintelligible  manner." 

"And  why,  please,  do  they  not  call  any  more   on  your 

talent^" 

"  Because  they  don't  need  it.  Have  not  lithography 
and  type-writing  been  invented?  The  work  is  done  quickly 
and  at  less  cost.  It  is  thus  that  artists  become  ruined. 
I  shudder  to  think  of  it;  it  is  the  last  blow  given  to  pen- 
manship. I,  who  now  am  speaking  to  you,  once  used  to 
give  lessons  at  sixty  cents  each;  I  have  taught  the  pos- 
ition of  the  body  and  how  to  manage  the  pen  to  lads  of 
the  first  families,  to  misses  who  had  hands  whiter  and 
softer  than  the  paper  on  which  they  used  to  write.  I 
taught  in  a  college  of  the  capital,  and,  to  become  perfect, 
two  years  of  application  were  necessary.  We  taught  by 
principles,  and  slowly,  while  now  some  charlatans,  who 
have  turned  everything  topsy-turvy,  pretend  to  teach 
penmanship  in  six  weeks.  All  that  made  me  shudder. 
Truly,  I  am  no  longer  a  young  man,  but  my  eye  is  good 
and  my  hand  does  not  tremble  yet,  and  if  the  old  methods 
were  esteemed  as  they  deserve,  I  should  not  be  a  public 

writer. 

Ternisien  had  never  before  delivered  so  long  a  speech. 
He  felt  the  need  of  resting  himself,  wiped  his  nose  and 
offered  Duverrier  his  snuff-box. 


12 

The  latter  took  advantage  of  this  pause  to  say: 
"Why  do  not  employ  the  new  methods  if  the  old  ones 
are  no  longer  useful?" 

"I!"  replied  the  old  professor  with  a  look  of  contempt; 
<'II     Should  I  then  have  wasted  twenty  years  of  my  life 
in  studying  the  art  of  writing  well?     Should  I  have  over- 
come  all  the  difficulties  and  learned  all  the  forms  of  pen- 
manship — round  hand,  Gothic,  Italian,  etc.— only  in  order 
to  approve  now  with   my   example   a  bad   innovation? 
Never!     And  by  the  way,  do  you  know  this  renowned 
and  extolled  invention,  about  which  Carstairs  and  his 
pupils  made  so  much  noise?     It  is  simply  the  inclined 
calligraphy  which  they  impudently  have  disfigured  and 
by  a  mechanical  process,  apart  from  intellect,  have  made 
uniform  for  everybody.     And  here  is  where  the  evil  lies! 
A  cook  may  write  as  well  as  his  own   teacher,  and  their 
own  handwriting  will  be  similar  that  no  difference  can 
be  distinguished,  and  then  of  what  use  will  be  that  other 
useful  and  precious  art  of  guessing  the   moral  character 
of  an  individual  by  his  handwriting,  I  should  ask  you. 
No,  no,  Chrisostomus  Ternisien  will  never  countenance 
the  propagation  of  such  impious  inventions.     I  am  ready 
to  change  my  profession,  and  by  compelling  me  to  leave 
the  place  they  will  perhaps  confer  a  favor  on  me." 

His  interlocutor  was  already  preparing  himself  to  ask 
of  him  the  explanation  of  these  last  wonls,  but  was  pre- 
vented  from  doing  so  by  the  arrival  of  a  lad  between 
tv/elve  or  thirteen  years  old,  resolute  in  his  bearing,  bold 
and  quick  like  a  true  gamin  of  Paris,  who,  turning  his 
eyes  from  one  to  another,  ended  by  asking : 
"Are  you  the  writer? 
Duverrier  went  away,  leaving  Ternisien  alone  with  his 

customer. 

"What  do  you  want,  young  man? 


^ 


13 

"I  wish  you  to  copy  this,"  answered  the  youth,  showing 
him  a  piece  of  paper  which  he  folded  in  his  fingers. 

Ternisien  glanced  at  it  without  reading  it,  and  only 
assured  himself  of  the  quantity  of  the  work.  After  this 
first  inspection,  going  out  of  the  shop  and  bringing  his 
customer  before  the  frame,  he  asked  him: 

"What  sort  of  writing  do  you  wish?"  and  with  his 
fingers  pointed  out  the  different  specimens. 

The  lad  looked  at  him,  and  finally  told  him  to  choose 

the  cheapest. 

Ternisien  went  to  his  seat,  prepared  a  beautiful  sheet 
of  paper,  cut  a  new  pen  and  began  the  reading  of  the 
manuscript.  After  a  few  lines  he  stopped,  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  little  urtMn,  who  was  standing  with  his 
shoulders  against  the  posters  of  the  door,  and,  who  with 
crossed  arms  and  legs,  was  whistling  an  air  with  variations 
of  his  own.  Any  one,  who  might  have  observed  the  looks 
of  Ternisien,  could  have  easily  perceived  an  expression 
of  doubt  and  astonishment,  when  ho  turned  his  face  to 

the  boy. 

In  a  vnoment  he  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  call  him, 
but  seeing  him  so  careless  and  so  little  concerned  regard- 
ing what  passed  on  behind  his  shoulders,  he  pursued  his 
reading.  Ashe  progressed,  his  eyes  became  animated; 
curiosity  and  interest  appeared  in  his  face,  it  seemed  that 
he  was  trying  to  solve  a  p:  -blcm  which  required  all  the 
force  of  his  imagination. 

The  boy  continued  to  whistle  as  a  lark,  and  Ternisien 
did  not  mind  it. 

Having  taken  the  pen,  he  examined  it,  putting  it 
between  him  and  the  light,  and  already  dipping  in  the 
ink  and  flourishing  it,  was  ready  to  trace  the  first  letter, 
when  suddenly  he  entered  into  a  new  and  different  order 
of  ideas.    Hesitation  succeeded  the  interest  with  which 


I 


he  had  read  those  linea.    Evidently  he  struggled  between 
the  mechanical  wqrk  of  his  profession  and  the  apprecia- 
tion of  the  writing  he  had  under  his  eyes.     Ternisien'a 
intelligence   was   not  bright;   constantly   closed   in   the 
narrow  circle  of  a  specialty,  which  did  not  require  any 
effort  of  imagination,  he  confined  himself  to  the  form  of 
the  thoughts  without  trying  to  penetrate  them.     He  was 
like  those  materialistic  philosophers  to  whom  the  creature 
hides    the    creator,   and   inasmuch   as   misfortune   has 
always  the  sure  effect  of  reviving  convinction  in  men  who 
are  suffering,  the  more  his  name  was  spurned,  the  more 
he  exaggerated  his  own  importance.     Of  all  his  sufferings 
he  had  formed  a  sort  of  religion  of  which  he  was  the 
martyr.     But  if  in  his  poor  brain  reason  had  darkened 
itself  to  such  an  extent,  his  soul  had  kept  its  candor  and 
all  its  primitive  uprightness.     Straightforward  with  his 
customers,  he  was  also  straightforward  with  himself.  His 
pride  as  professor  was  mortified  at  descending  to  the 
position  of  an  employee,  and  he  only  yielded  to  necessity 
every  time  that  for  a  moderate  price  he  wrote  insignificant 
lines;  but  he  often  shuddered  when  he  thought  that  he 
might  lend  the  aid  of  his  pen  to  sinful  words,  and  feared 
that  he  who  was  incapable  of  telling  a  lie  even  for  his 
own  advantage,  sometimes  might  be  an  instrument  of 
calumny    and  falsehood.    This  has  been  precisely  the 
secret  feeling  he  intended  to  express  when  he  had  said 
compelling  me  to  leave  this  place  they  will  perhaps  confer 
a  favor  on  me.    Hia  impossibility  to  exercise  any  other 
profession  obliged  him  to  remain  in  this.    The  writing 
to  be  copied  was  of  such  a  nature  as  to  inspire  him  with 
reflections  very  embarassing  to  his  conscience. 

In  spite  of  his  cleverness  in  interpreting  the  handwrit- 
ing of  these  lines,  he  remained  uncertain,  and  convicted 
of  impotence  in  the  same  way  as  an  academician  Btands 


between 
pprecia- 
rnisien's 

in  the 
uire  any 
form  of 
He  was 
creature 
une  has 
nen  who 
he  more 
afferings 
was  the 
larkened 
idor  and 
with  his 
self.  His 
5  to  the 
necessity 
gnificant 

that  he 
id  feared 
I  for  his 
ament  of 
isely  the 
had  said 
ps  confer 
,ny  other 
J  writing 
lim  with 

iiandwrit- 
convicted 
m  Btands 


in  the  presence  of  a  hieroglyphical  inscription.  Ilia 
position  was  graver  and  more  serious.  Of  what  int- 
erest  in  history  indeed  is  a  false  statement  or  mistake? 
What  is  falsehood  or  truth  to  those  who  are  dead,  and 
even  to  those  who  are  alive?  In  his  case  instead,  although 
he  did  not  know  by  whom  the  letter  had  been  written, 
nor  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  nor  what  sincere  or  per- 
fidious interest  had  dictated  it,  he  was  afraid  when  he 
thought  of  the  consequences  that  letter  may  bring.  The 
wretched  man,  lost  in  this  labyrint,  had  vainly  asked 
advice  of  his  usual  counsellor.  He  rolled  between  the 
thumb  and  forefinger  of  the  left  hand  a  pinch  of  snuff 
which  ho  took  from  time  to  time;  he  applied  to  the  gift 
of  writing  the  same  apologue  Esopus  had  applied  to  the 
speech,  and  allowing  himself  to  be  carried  away  by  the 
strenght  of  his  learned  digressions  and  by  his  classical 
remembrances,  in  a  solemn  voice  he  cried: 

"If  like  Achilles'  spear  which  cured  the  wound  raftde 

by  itselfl" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  boy,  turning, arqunl, 
"have  you.finished  perchance?" 

"I  have  not  yet  began." 

■  OhI  perhaps  you  do  not  know  how  to  write,  or  ar<?  you 
waiting  for  some  one  to  help  you.  Give  me  back  m-j  paper 
or  hasten,  I  am  in  a  hurry.    Somebody  is  waiting  for  me.'' 

"  Perhaps  the  same  p^son  who  gave  you  this  ktt'er?  " 
asked  Ternisien.  ' 

"  No,  but  some  of  my  friends  with  whom  I  was  playing 
marbles.  I  left  my  turn  to  another  boy  who  does  ,not 
play  so  well  as  I,  and  having  ten  cents  in  the  game  I 
would  be  glad  to  know  how  business  is  standing.,  Quickly, 
move  around,  double  quick,  as  I  have  yet  another  errand 
to  do;  are  you  perhaps  frightened  about  the  .payment? 
Here  it  is,  I  pay  you  sixteen  cents,  ijx  advance.     lido  not 


i 


"'gfejJFy^i?!^' 


10 

wruugle,  but  I  uiu  in  a  hurry  and  you  must,  bo  quick. " 

Without  being  moved,  without  shuring  in  this  impa- 
tience, the  ohl  writer  said  to  the  boy: 

"Who  send  you  on  this  errand'"  , 

The  boy  looking  at  him,  answered: 
"  Somebody,  "  and  then  turned  up  his  nose  and  stuck 
out  his  tongue  and  his  lower  lip.     Any  other  man  would 
have  punished  this  very  disrespectful  act,  but  the   kind 
old  man  renewed  the  question. 

"  If  formerly  I  answered  you  somebody, "  said  the  boy, 
"  it  is  quite  clear  that  you  ought  to  know  no  more  than 
that.  What  else?  They  gav«  me  the  letter  with  the 
instructions  to  have  it  copied  ])y  a  public  writer;  they 
gave  me  the  money  and  I  went  away  to  execute  their 
orders.  I  pray  you,  why  then  do  y  ni  not  do  your  duty? 
That's  all.  Would  you  like  me  to  whistle  you  anothe  air? 
Perhaps  it  will  please  you,  "  and  he  began  to  whistle  a 

ballad  which  was  then  very  popular 

•'  When  love  was  constant,  etc.  " 
Ternisien  again  put  before  him  on  the  table,  which 
was  his  desk,  the  letter  and  the  paper,  and  again  took  up 
the  pen.     It  was  not  the  desire  of  earning  the  sixteen 
cents,  magnificent  recompense  far  a  few  minutes'  work, 
that  had  decided  him  to  do  it.    He  had  made  two  very 
easy  reflections  which  overcame  all  his  scruples:  firstly 
that  what  he  was  going  to  write  might  as  well  be  true  as 
false;  secondly,  that  if  he  should  refuse,a  less  scrupulous 
colleague  would  do  it.    It  must  be  said  that  he  was  much 
moved  by    curiosity,    and  he  was  waiting  for  the  time 
when,  according  to  the  instruction  given  (without  doubt) 
to  the  boy,  he  would  write  tha  name  and  address  of  the 
person  to  whom  the  letter  was  addressed.    Nevertheless, 
before  beginning  to  write,  he  ask*d: 
"  Have  you  read  this  letter?  " 


p^frii^'  -S.  .-Jtifc^'rff^  J-'K 


quick. " 
,hi9  impa- 


and  stuck 

nun  would 

the   kind 

,id  the  boy, 
more  than 
r  with  the 
liter;  they 
3cute  thejr 
your  duty? 
nnothe  air? 
)  whistle  G, 


able,  which 
!iin  took  up 
the  sixteen 
lutes'  work, 
e  two  very 
pies:  firstly 
I  be  true  as 
i  scrupulous 
le  was  much 
or  the  time 
hout  doubt) 
irees  of  the 
Nevertheless, 


**  I?  I  can't  road.     1  do  not  know  the  name  of  the  letters 
and  I  would  be  sorry  to  bo  a  learned  man  asyuu  are." 
"Why  80?" 

"  A  nice  question!  Because  you  would  not  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  my  ac(iuaintanco,  and  I  that  of  tellini; 
you  th  it  you  would  do  better  to  move  your  pen  than  your 
tongue.  The  person  gave  me  this  papor  asked  me,  beforo 
all,  if  I  was  able  to  read,  and  I  answered  no.  Then  I 
received  my  instructions  wilh  tliree  francs,  of  which  I 
shall  give  you  sixteen  cents,  if  you  make  haste,  and  you 
instead  are  going  slow  us  a  snail.  "  i 

Ternisien,  seeing  that  he  wouM  not  obtain  any  further 
information,  began  his  work.  lie  had  so  attentively  read 
and  weighed  every  word  of  the  paper  that  ho  had  almost 
J.earned  it  by  heart.  Every  word  expressed  such  serious 
facts,  such  important  revelations,  that  they  had  engraved 
themselves  in  his  memory  so  as  to  prevent  any  possible 
distraction.  Contrary  to  his  habit,  he  copied  the  paper 
without  a  single  mistake.  As  soo-.i  he  had  done  he  folded 
the  sheet,  and  turning  to  the  boy  he  said; 

"  Did  they  give  you  the  nunie  and  address  to  which  it 
is  going?  " 

"Yes"  answered  he,  extending  his  hand  to   the  table 
with  celerity  and  without  being  noticed,  "  yes  it  is  written 
with  pencil  on  a  piece  of  paper  which  is  in  the  left  pocket 
of  my  waistcoat,  but  you  must  not  know  it.  " 

At  the  same  time,  he  took  the  letter  and  jumping  back- 
ward moved  to  leave  the  shop. 

"  Some  other  one  is  going  to  scribble  this  address,  "  he 
added;  "I  have  my  orders.  " 

"Give  me  back  that  letter,  "  asked  Ternisien;  so  many 
precautions  do  not  mean  anything  good." 

" No,"  answered  the  boy,  I  will  not  give  it  back,  and 
even  you  will  return  to  me  the  copy  I  have  brought  you. 


mil 


'^»<i4«W>BaMlfn«*iirti)ft<**hi««i^^ 


"lASi--  ■ 


or  you  will  tear  it  In  my  own  presence.    This  order  has 

l)jou  strictly  given  to  mo.  "  ,  .    .       i 

"  Even  thati  "  exclaimed  the  writer,  clasping  his  hands. 
"  Ahl  from  this  time  I  swear  never  more  to  copy  anony- 
n.ous  letters.  They  surely  intend  to  destroy  the  traces 
of  this  one,  and  I  ought  have  refused  it." 

"  What  a  stupid  old  man,"  said  the  hoy;  "ho  looks  as 
if  he  were  saying  his  prayers.  Well,  then,  good  man,  you 
must  come  to  a  decision.  Tear  up  the  pai-er  or  you  will 
not  got  your  money.  "  And  the  sixteen  cents  from  the 
table  had  returned  to  his  hands.  Searching  on  the  table 
for  the  paper,  which  in  tlie  first  movement  ho  hud  pushed 
iiway  and  mixed  with  others,  Tornisien  tore  it  in  a  thou- 
sand  pieces  and  threw  them  in  the  face  of  the  boy,  saying 

to  him: 

"Away  with  you!  young  rnscal.  " 

"  A  rascal?  Yes,  but  not  a  thief, "  replied  the  boy; 
"  here  is  your  cash.  "  And  taking  his  aim,  he  threw  the 
eight  two  cent  piece  into  the  big  pocket  which  yawned  at 
the  side  of  the  writer's  coat,  and  in  which  they  fell  as  in  a 
ravine.  He  then  retired,  walking  backward  and  laughing 
at  the  ex-professor,  and  bold  and  impudent,  went  away 
like  a  sparrow  who  laughs  at  those  who  try  to  catch  him. 

Ternisien  for  a  while  remained  in  deep  meditation. 
At  last  he  got  up,  put  his  papers  in  order,  took  with  him 
a  sheet  of  paper,  shut  his  office,  and  crossing  the  courtyard, 
went  to  speak  with  his  neighbor  who  was  watering  his 

cameliaa.  . 

The  boy,  faithfully  following  the  orders  he  had  received, 
brought  the  letter  to  another  public  writer  and  then 
posted  it.     It  was  addressed : 

Julius  Valabert,  Esq. , 

Auditor  of  the  State  Council, 
'  Rue  de  Lille,  ZA. 


I  order  has 

gr  Ilia  hands, 
opy  anouy' 
<f  the  traces 

ho  looks  as 
od  man,  you 
or  you  will 
is  from  the 
on  the  table 
I  hud  pushed 
it  in  a  thou- 
3  boy,  saying 


ed  the  boy; 
lie  threw  the 
;h  yawned  at 
ey  fell  aa  in  a 
lud  laughing 
,  went  away 
tu  catch  him. 
>  meditation. 
3ok  with  him 
he  courtyard, 
watering  his 

had  received, 
ter   and  then 


unci], 
Lille,  BA. 


30 


II. 


TIIK  LOVERS. 

"Whnl  wo  huvo  narrated  is  in  a  certain  way,  tho  prolo- 
guo  of  our  talo.  Wo  must  go  back  a  littlo  to  present  to 
<iur  readers  the  principal  persons  wlio  will  fiijuro  in  this 
story.  And  to  begin,  wo  will  introduce  tlieiii  to  a  house 
in  Fursteniberg  street,  in  tho  moat  distant  part  of  fcit. 
Oeriiiain's  thoroughfare.  ^ 

Tho  apartuiout  in  tho  second  story  is  neither  rich  nor 
luxurious;  thcro  one  docs  not  see  ox[)ensive  furniture,  nor 
rich  curtain",  nor  costly  bric-a-  brae, — in  the  parlor  only 
a  looking-glass,  in  the  windows  phtin  cotton  curtains, 
some  easy  chairs  but  not  a  sofa,  a  bare  ceiling  and  a 
simple  carpet,  green  like  the  wall  paper  of  the  room.  The 
only  object  which  seemed  of  any  value  was  a  piano  of  the 
newest  fashion,  out  near  which  were  piled  many  books  of 
songs  and  complete  operas.  In  spite  of  the  modest  value 
of  the  objects  which  furnished  this  principal  room,  the 
good  taste  which  had  presided  over  the  harmony  cf  the 
whole  gave  to  it  an  aspect  of  elegance,  and  it  could  easily 
be  surmised  that  this  so  clean  and  so  well-kept  apartment 
belonged  to  a  lady. 

In  fact,  near  the  window,  before  a  tapestry  frame,  a 
beautiful  person  was  seated,  hastily  finishing  a  very 
pretty  piece  of  work.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  the 
simplicity  of  her  toilet  harmonized  thoroughly  with  that 
of  the  place  in  which  she  lived.  Her  long  dark  eyebrows, 
lowered  upon  her  work,  rose  only  at  intervals,  and  then 
her  beautiful  dark  eyes  turned  to  the  clock,  the  hands  of 
which  seemed  to  move  too  quickly  for  her.  Her  hands, 
of  a  wonderful  whiteness,  could  have  served  as  a  model 
to  a  portrait  painter  if  the  extremity  of  the  fingers  had 


it»itf^im!LWf>iai^i>f-^ei^:'i^'fSf'i^''^ir'i^'^ 


20 

been  thinner.  Her  neck,  finely  shaped,  was  of  perfect 
form  and  beauty,  and  imparted  grace  and  flexibility  to 
everv  movement  of  the  hekd.  Finally  the  moment  ar- 
rived when  the  young  girl  consulted  the  clock  with  pleas- 
ure and  cut  the  last  thread  of  the  tapestry. 

Getting  up  from  the  chair  and  giving  a  last  glance  at 

the  whole  of  lier  work, she  rang.  An  old  servant  appeared. 

"Marion,"  she  said  to  her  with  a  joy  which  sparkled 

in  her  eyes  and  was  evident  in  her  voice,  •'  at  last  this 

work  is  finished.     What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Marion  approved  with  majestic  air,  and  struck  with 
the  brightness  of  the  colors  and  exquisite  taste  with 
which  they  were  arranged,  exclaimed:  "  It  is  a  master- 
piece! if  you  would  let  me  act  according  to  my  own  fancy, 
you  would  receive  a  better  price.  " 

"You   know  that  every  work  is  already  sold  at  the 
same  store  and  for  the  same  price." 
"Jewsl"  murmured  the  old  woman. 
"  It  isn't  right,  Marion,  to  treat  in  such   a  way  kind 
people  who  have   procured  for    me   a   steady   and   sure 
resource,  which  supports  me." 

"Oh!  upon  my  word,  if  you  would,  you  need  not  work.  " 
A  severe  look  stopped  the  words  of  Marion,  who  turn- 
ing her  eyes  in  another  direction,  replied  with  great 
embarrassment: 

"I  meant  to  speak  of  your  talent  in  music;  there  are 
few  teachers  of  your  ability,  and  when  you  used  to  give 

lessons  at  two  dollars  each " 

"  That  displeased  Julius. " 

"  It  is  true, "  answered  the  old  woman, "  since  then  you 
play  music  only  for  him.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  prefer  this 
life  to  the  old  way  of  living,  always  in  town  and  alone, 
whatever  might  be  the  season,  while  at  present  you  do 
not  go  out  any  more,  except  when  Julius  gives  you  his 
arm,  which  happens  very  seldom,  indeed. " 


■'",;f>i.^-fi^*^*:= 


of  perfect 
xibility  to 
jment  ar- 
vith  pleas- 
glance  at 
appeared. 
1  spurkletl 
t  last  this 

ruck  with 
taste  with 
a  master- 
own  fancy, 

sold  at  the 


way  kind 
and   sure 

not  work.  " 
who  turn- 
with  great 

r,  there  are 
sed  to  give 


ice  then  you 
[  prefer  this 
and  alone, 
lent  you  do 
ves  you  his 


21 

A  second  look  from  the  mistress  ended  Marion's  hahhle. 

While  she  spoke,  the  young  lady  had  taken  the  tapestry 
from  the  frame  and  foldsd  it  with  great  care. 

"Be  quick;  take  it  away  hefore  Julius  arrives,"  said 
the  young  woman,  "  and  hide  the  frame  so  that  he  cannot 
see  it.     This  is  his  hour. " 

"  Be  careful;  Master  Julius  does  not  like  mistery.  " 

"  Alas!  God  only  knows  how  much  it  costs  me  to  have 
a  secret  from  him. 

She  made  a  sign  and  Marion  went  out,  leaving  her 
mistress  in  deep  thought,  this  hrief  conversation  having 
been  sulHcient  to  recall  to  her  mind  her  present  situation. 

Fanny  was  three  years  old  when  she  lost  her  mother. 
Her  father,  a  teacher  in  a  provincial  town,  spared  neither 
pains  nor  trouble  to  educate  her.     His  dear  and  only 
daughter  was  always  the  first  and  best  among  his  pupils. 
♦Showing  a  decided   inclination  for  music,  a  competent 
teacher  was  given  her.     In  everything  she  progressed 
rapidly,  and  in  a  short  time  her  father  was  able  to  see 
her  as  perfect  as  he  wished  t(»  be.     She  was  scarcely 
sixteen  years  old,  when  Mr.  Dusmenil,  satisfied  of  having 
warned  her  in  general  terms  against  the  dangers  which 
threaten  a  maiden,  gave  her  a  freedom  which,  for  a  heart 
naturally  tender  and  open  to  impressions  would  be    dan- 
gerous. Among  other  liberties,  he  permitted  her  to  remain 
long  days  togheter  with  a  neighbor's  son  named  Ernest, 
a  young  man  rather  good-looking,  who  lucked  not  clev- 
erness.    It  is  true  that   Mr.   Dusmenil   saw   in   Ernest, 
educated  with  his  daughter  and  until  that  time  an   in- 
nocent companion  in  her  studies  and  plays,  the  future 
husband  whom  he  secretly  destined  for  Fanny,  and,  there- 
fore, did  not  discourage  an  intimacy  which  would  afford 
them  the  opportunity  of  mutually  knowing  each  other. 
This  time  tlxat  which  had  been  anticipated  did  not  happen. 


,r4;if*S>Sff?/i^^^'.f^ 


m 

Fanny,  ia  the  presence  of  her  childhood's  friend,  ex- 
perienced no  emotion,  either  because  her  hour  had  not 
yet  arrived  or  else  because  it  is  almost  impossible  that 
true  friendship  should  change  in  love. 

The  time  was  passing  pleasantly  and  her  future  seemed 
smiling  and  flattering,  when  she  was  overtaken  by  a 
dreadful  misfortune.  Her  father  died  almost  suddenly, 
leaving  no  fortune.  Ernest  was  then  absent,  and  his 
family,  on  account  of  Fanny's  poverty,  did  not  show 
further  desire  to  carry  cut  the  proposed  marriage. 

Fanny  resolved  not  to  wait  for  Ernest's  return  and  left, 
retiring  to  an  old  relative's  whose  only  assistance  cons- 
isted in  advising  her  to  employ  the  little  money  she  yet 
possessed  in  developing  her  talents  and  in  taking  a  few 
lessons  before  begin  to  teach.  She  soon  succeeded  in 
securing  a  few  pupils,  by  which  means,  little  by  little,  she 
derived  a  certain  amount  of  comfort. 

One  day  she  was  called  at  a  house  in  the  Ghaussee 
<f-(4«//«,  to  teach  music  to  a  young  lady  about  ten  years 
old,  named  Eliza  Saint-Gilles. 

The  family  into  which  she  was  introduced  consisted  of 
influential  people,  proud  of  their  riches.  Being  request- 
ed to  play,  she  performed  a  selection  which  enraptured 
all  these  present.  Among  others,  a  young  man  made 
himself  conspicuous  for  his  lively  admiration,  although 
Fanny,  on  her  part,  paid  no  attention  to  his  compliments. 
The  following  daj,  at  the  time  of  the  lesson,  the  young 
gentleman  happened  to  be  in  the  room  and  continued  to 
come  every  day,  sometimes  at  the  beginning  and  t;t  other 
times  at  the  end  of  it.  His  eyes  constantly  fixed  on  the 
teacher,  forced  her  to  blush  and  in  spite  of  herseh 
troubled  her.  Chance,  one  day,  left  him  alone  with 
Fanny  at  the  moment  in  which  her  lesson  liad  ended 
and  while  her  pupil  was  going  out  for  a  walk.     Persuad- 


«.«,,.. 


*^*i««awT':RiI*»PSs?^;w^3«^.stM»»MS»te'!«»*«»nv:S****ae3i«^sa^^ 


'23 

ed  that  ho  wouM  find  little  severity  in  a  young  girl  who 
was  living  alone  and  who,  on  account  of  her  profession, 
was  dependent  upon  the  public,  he  spoke  to  her  of  love 
with  an  air  of  assurance  and  self-conceit,  and  tried  to 
approach  her. 

A  gesture  full  of  dignity  forced  him  to  stop. 

*'  I  am  an  orphan,"  she  said  to  him;  "  1  have  no  rela- 
tive, no  defender;  my  only  support  is  this,"  pointing  to 
the  piano,  "  and  you  are  trying  to  deprive  me  of  it,  be- 
caiise  it  is  certain  that  I  should  no  longer  dare  to  come 
to  this  house." 

After  saying  these  words,  Fanny  went  out,  but  on 
reaching  home,  still  affected  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears , 
she  received  a  letter  in  which  Mr.  Julius  Valabert,  ac- 
knowledging  what  kind  of  woman  he  had  offended,  pres- 
ented his  most  respectful  apologies  and  entreated  her  not 
to  add  to  the  faults  with  which  he  already  reproached 
himself  that  of  having  caused  her  departure  from  the 
house  of  Saint-Gilles,  and  promised  her  never  more  to  go 
there.  If  Fanny  had  a  mother,  her  conduct  would  have 
been  different. 

The  culprit's  repentance  found  favor  with  Fanny.  The 
fear  of  an  unpleasant  scandal  if  the  reason  of  her  not 
going  any  mora  to  the  lesson  should  have  been  suspected 
and  the  security  inspired  by  this  letter,  caused  her  to 
return  to  Mrs.  Saint-Gilles'  house.  The  young  man  appear- 
ed no  more.  The  human  heart  is  always  full  of  strange 
contradictions,  and  even  the  sincerest  is  ihe  most  ingen- 
ious in  deceiving  itself.  Fanny  on  returning  on  that 
house,  had  really  thought  she  would  not  again  meet  Mr. 
Valabert;  and  yet,  without  knowing  it,  she  was  dominat- 
ed by  a  vague  hope  that  Julius  would  come  in  person  to 
present  his  apologies.  Vainly  she  prolonged  her  lessons 
beyond  the  time  she  ought  to  have  given  them;  the  inter- 


\ji^i^^$t&m 


!!.. 


M 

est  which  she  used  to  take  in  the  progress  of  her  pupil 
was  uo  longer  the  saino,  ami  her  zeal  in  teaching  was 
infinitely  diminished. 

Was  she  comprehending  lior  real  feelings?  No;  without 
douht  she  did  not  understand  herself  until  the  day  when, 
arriving  earlier  than  usual,  she  noticed  the  presence 
of  Julius.  *  '  ' 

By  the  blushes  which  she  folt  suffuse  her  face,  by  the 
Budden  palpitation  of  her  lieart,  she  understood  what  she 
had  tried  to  hide  from  herself,  that  she  loved  Julius. 

When  he  timidly  asked  of  her,  as  a  great  favor,  per- 
mission to  be  present  at  the  lesson,  she  had  no  strength 
to  refuse  him,  so  great  was  tlie  inward  joy.  That  day  she 
accompanied  badly  and  sung  out  of  tune,  but  on  the  fol- 
loving  day,  already  prepared  for  the  presence  of  Julius, 
who  did  not  move  from  the  parlor,  she  sung  with  such 
expression  and  threw  so  much  soul  into  the  notes  that 
the  enamored  and  ecstasied  youth  could  only  thank  her 
with  his  eyes  for  the  pleasure  he  had  felt  in  listening  to 
her.  The  girl's  joy  was  intense  and  noticeable.  A  few 
day  afterwards  they  ventured  to  sing  together,  a  danger- 
ous experiment  which  was  repeated  many  times,  and  the 
harmonious,  fascinating  music  achieved  the  seduction. 

This  would  have  been  the  right  time  for  her  to  fly,  but 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  do  so.  No  one  was  there  to 
teach  her  that  sentiment  of  reason  which  sh?  lacked,  and 
.not  knowing  how  to  close  hor  ears  against  the  language 
of  a  young  and  sincere  lover,  she  had  the  weakness  to 
betray  lierself. 

On  his  part,  he  passionately  begged  of  her  to  grant  him 
the  happiness  of  seeing  her  alone  and  of  being  received 
at  her  home;  bis  grief  was  so  violent,  his  tears  so  sincere, 
his  passion  so  prevailing,  that  one  day  he  knelt  at  the 
feet  of  Fanny,  in  her  little  apartment  in  Furstemburg 


25 


her  pupil 
ihiug  was 

fo;  without 
day  when, 
B  presence 

?e,  by  the 
d  what  she 
fulius. 
favor,  per- 
o  strength 
iiat  day  she 
>n  the  fol- 
of  Julius, 
with  such 
notes  that 
thank  her 
istening  to 
le.  A  few 
,  a  danger- 
es,  and  the 
sduction. 
■:  to  fly,  but 
IS  tliere  to 
lacked,  and 
e  languai^e 
Tukness  to 

)  grant  him 
ig  received 
s  so  sincere, 
iielt  at  the 
iirsteniburg 


street.  Alas!  Poor  Fanny  had  no  mother  to  watch  on  her. 
Six  months  after,  when  we  meet  Fanny,  in  spite  of  the 
great  love  of  Julius,  which  seemed  to  increase  daily  in 
intensity,  she  felt  a  deep  and  strong  sorrow  which  poison- 
ed  her  happiness.     At  the  side  of  Julius  she  endeavored 
to  overcome  it,  asking  from  love  the  oblivion  of  her  re- 
morse.     But  in  the  hours  of  solitude  and  reflection,  a 
lively  grief  mastered  her  heart,  tears  flowed  abundantly 
us   soon   as  her  thoughts   departed   from   the  present, 
marching  toward  the  future.     Her  only  hope  reposed  on 
the  uncertain  duration  of  the  love  of  Julius.     For  al- 
though he  was  most  tender  and  affectionate,  yet  he  had 
some  faults  which  rightly  grieved  her.    The  principal 
ones  were  mistrust  and  jealousy.  Alreadyto  please  him,  she 
had  decided  to  discontinue  her  lessons,  as  Julius  thought 
her  profession  a  little  precarious,  because  he,  witli  his 
experience,  had  learned  to  what  dangers  a  young  teacher 
is  exposed;  and  although  renouncing  in  this  way  the  exer- 
cise of  her  talents  she   had  lost   much,   yet  she  would 
accept  nothing  from  her  lover.      Fanny  succeeded  in 
persuading  Julius  that  she  had  still  a  small  income  aris- 
ing from  the  united  legacies  of  her  father  and  an  old  aunt 
which,  together  with  savings,  (now  almost  exhausted,) 
was  enough  for  her  needs.     We  have  already  seen   how 
the  poor  girl  added  to  her  scanty  income  by  the  sale  of 
her  tapestry-work,  in  which,  as  in  many  other  things,  she 
WLS  indeed  very  skillful. 

Very  few  minutes  had  passed  since  Marion  had  gone, 
when  Fanny  was  disturbed  in  her  meditations  by  a  sharp 
pull  of  the  bell,  which  restored  her  gayety. 

"At  last!  "  she  thought,  and  run  to  open  the  door. 
Juhus  entered.     He  was  a  young  man  about  thirty 
years  old,  with  dark  hair  and  rather  pallid  complexion. 
The  habit  of  serious  study  had   imparted  to  his  counte- 


1 


»  J^.  «l«iC^^!^l^^«^S^Sl*^^0-'>'^-"^""'^^*— 


26 


'0. 


nance  a  premature  gravity,  aud  although  naturally  kind 
and  inclined  to  indulgence,  one  might  have  noticed  in 
his  looks  that  distrust  common  to  all  those  who  on  account 
of  their  studies,  keep  aloof  from  the  world,  and  who  are 
not  accustomed  to  judge  of  men  and  things  at  a  single 
glance.  At  the  moment  Julius  appeared,  he  had  the 
thoughtful  mien  of  a  man  who  has  taken  an  important 
resolution  and  had  prepared  himself  to  disclose  it.  After 
having  glanced  around  him,  he  asked  where  Marion  was. 

"  I  sent  her  on  an  errand,"  answered  Fanny,  without 
any  further  explanation. 

Julius  entered  'he  parlor,  took  Fanny's  beautiful  hands 
in  his  own,  kissed  them,  and  mentioning  her  a  seat,  seat- 
ed himself  near  her. 

"  Fanny, "  he  began  with  the  sweetest  voice,  "  Fanny, 
are  you  happy?" 

"  Certainly, "  she  answered,  "  how  could  it  be  other- 
wise? Is  not  your  love  always  the  same?  Every  time 
you  wish  to  know  if  I  am  happy,  ask  yourself  if  you 
love  me. " 

"Yet,  nevertheless,  "  replied  Julius,  "  you  are  suffer- 
ing without  confiding  it  to  me,  as  if  your  heart  were 
hiding  something  from  me.  More  than  once  1  have 
discovered  traces  of  tears  in  your  face;  niore  than  once  I 
thought  I  had  guessed  the  agitaMons  of  your  soul.  From 
whence  that  grief  which  your  feigned  gayety  cannot  hide 
from  me?  Speak,  Fanny,  have  confidence  on  me;  what 
do  you  wish?    What  do  you  require  of  me?  " 

"  Nothing!  Have  I  not  told  often  you  that  your  love 
is  enough  for  me?  " 

"  Do  you  not  possess  it  entirely?  I  know  well  you  do 
not  ask  for  splendor,  or  luxury,  or  the  pleasure  of  vanity. 
You  refused  my  gifts,  and  I  was  obliged  to  yield  to  a 
pride  I  so  much  appreciated.     Fanny,   th:;o  which  you 


lS.r*«S!i*eiaail't=»-==-<«W.tj«»"tt 


27 


•ally  kind 
oticed  in 
m  account 
I  who  are 
t  a  single 
)  had  the 
important 
i  it.  After 
arion  was. 
',   without 

iful  hands 
seat,  seat- 

"  Fanny, 

be  other- 
very  time 
3lf  if  you 

ire  suffer- 
leart  were 
ce  1  have 
lan  once  I 
>ul.  From 
annot  hide 
me;  what 

your  love 

ell  you  do 
3  (if  vanity, 
yield  to  a 
vhich  you 


wish  for,  the  desire  which  troubles  your  joy  and  quie* 
and  perhaps  injures  your  health  also,  is  then  greater 
than  my  riches,  greater  than  my  love?  " 

"  Can  you  think  so? 

He  smiled  sweetly,  adding  in  a  most  encouraging  tone; 
"  Speak,  tell  me  it,  open  your  heart  to  mo." 

Fanny  answered:  "  Friend,  I  do  not  complain  of  my 
own  lot,  I  made  it  what  it  is.  I  love  you,  and  so  long  as 
you  will  love  me  I  shall  have  no  other  grief.  Forgive 
me  if  some  remembrance  of  the  past  conies  to  my  mind, 
and  tries  to  disturb  the  happiness  I  feel  with  you.  Alas! 
despite  of  myself,  against  my  wishes,  sometimes,  I  often 
fancy  to  see  my  father,  my  poor  father  who  loved  me  so 
much,  appear  before  me  with  angry  face,  asking  a  strict 
account  of  the  principles  in  which  he  had  educated  me, 
I  have  no  reason  to  reproach  you.  I  asked  only  for  your 
love,  and  until  now  you  have  given  it.  You  had  only 
promised  me  faithfulness,  and  you  have  kept  your  prom- 
ise.  What  reason  have  I,  then,  to  complain?  What 
are  the  causes  of  my  grief?  I  am  happy,  you  know  it 
very  well.  " 

While  saying  these  words,  she  wiped  a  falling  tear. 

Julius  pressing  her  head  to  his  breast,  answered: 

"Yes,  dear  Fanny,  without  doubt  I  promised  you  my 
love,  but  th's  love  is  capable  of  anything;  it  will  not  stop 
short  of  sacrifices  which  will  cease  to  be  called  such  the 
moment  when  through  them  you  recover  your  peace 
and  happiness. 

"  What  do  you  mean? ''  she  asked,  raising  her  beauti- 
ful eyes,  full  of  wonder. 

"  Yesterday  you  confided  mo  something." 

She  blushed  and  bent  her  head. 

"  To  day  I  answer  with  another  confidence.  My  family 
wish  me  to  marry.  " 

"What  then?  " 


"^^t^^^^'i^- 


-,i^,*ai&*ife:^awg(f«$k«^'iS  ..&^igil^ski^%!V^^-^*)*f^'  ■^-*%  1  -"  "' 


28 

"  Well  I  have  resolved  to  choose  a  comianion,  but  I 
will  not  go  to  find  her  among  the  women  belonging  to 
the  clu"3  of  those  apparently  wealthy  but  poor  in  true 
merit,  iu  whom  vanity  corrupts  the  best  sentiments — 
among  those  ladies  wlio  think  that  a  great  name  or  a 
great  fortune  can  dispense  with  virtue  or  talent.  No; she 
whom  I  choose  will  be  a  timid  and  modest  woman,  whose 
heart  I  have  already  learned  to  know,  sufficiently  in  love 
to  have  yielded  to  me,  sufficiently  virtuous  to  feel  repent- 
ant — a  woman,  in  short,  who  is  worthy  to  bear  the  name 
of  an  honest  man.  You,  Fanny,  are  that  woman;  that 
name  is  mine.     I  offer  it  to  you;  do  you  accept  it? 

The  poor  girl  listened  as  if  she  could  not  understand 
his  words.  When  Julius  had  finished,  she  remained  a 
little  while  with  her  hands  clasped  and  as  though  she 
were  yet  listening  to  him. 

Julius  took  her  hand  and  gazed  at  her  lovingly. 
"  Is  it  true?"  she  said  at  last;  "  is  it  not  a  dream?" 
"  No,  no;  it  would  be  too  cruel  were  it  not  in  earnest.  " 
"  Oh!  dear!  "  and  while  so  saying  she  let  herself  fall 
into  his  arms,  but  soon  freeing  herself  from  him,  she 
fell  upon  her  knees,  exclaiming: 
"Oh!  my  father!" 

A  thought  crossed  her  mind,  and  raising,  she  approach, 
ed  Julius,  and  regarding  him  fixedly  all  the  time  she 
was  speaking,  said: 

"  Thanks,  dear,  for  your  generosity.  If  you  could  read 
my  heart,  what  gratitude  and  new  love  would  you  dis- 
cover in  it.  I  have  yet  a  question  to  ask  you.  Listen: 
these  words  are  serious,  and  I  pray  you  seriously  to 
answer  them.  If  what  you  told  me  is  only  dictated  by 
conscience,  if  you  off^i-r  me  your  hand,  this  precious 
present  by  me  so  long  wished  for,  only  as  a  performance 
of  a  sacred  duty,  if  some  day,  in   the   future,  your  heart 


nion,  but  I 
jelonging  to 
)oor  ill  true 
eutimcnts — 
name  or  a 
mt.  No; she 
aman,  whose 
iutly  in  love 
»  feel  repent- 
ear  the  name 
tvoman;  that 
ptit? 

;  understand 
remained  a 
though   she 

iiigly. 
Iream?" 
in  earnest.  " 
t  liorself  fall 
»m  him,  she 


iho  approach, 
he    time    slie 

on  could  read 
uid  you  dis- 
^rou.     Listen: 

seriously  to 
'  dictated  by 
ihis    precious 

performance 
),  your  heart 


29 

should  murmur  against  the  sagrifice  you  arc  making  for 
my  sake,  then  how  great  will  b?  my  grief;  and  although  I 
have  no  right  to  think  of  myself  alone,  yet  I  shouM  prefer 
to  hide  my  loneliness  and  shame  in  some  unknown 
place  ratlior  than  to  live  with  you,  spurned  and  despised 
by  a  husband  who  would  soon  repent  of  the  cojicessions 
given  in  a  moment  when  passion  overi»owored  him.  " 

"Fanny, "  replied  the  youth,  "  I  swear  to  you  that  my 
heart  onlv  has  urged  me  to  take  such  a  stei).  " 

Again  she  fell  at  his  feet.     He  raised  her,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  Julius  was  kneeling  before  lier,  saying: 

"Now,  Fanny,  will  you  refuse  me  what  1  am  going  to 

ask  of  you." 

"  What  jcan  I  refuse?     What  do  you  wish  of  me? 

"  A  proof  of  love.     As  you  well  know,  T  always   feared 
that  your  heart,  before  being  acquainted   with  me,  had 
loved  another.     You  have  always  assured  me  of  the  con- 
trary, nevertheless  this  fear  often  returns  to  my  thoughts. 
To  day  I  doubt  no  more.     I  can  assure  you   of  it.     You 
have  told   me   a  thousand   times   that   you  have   kept 
nothing  of  the  past  but  remembrances  of  your  childhood 
and  of  your  family.     You  have  jealously  keptas  a  treasure 
a  ring,  in  which  your  mother  had  put  a  lock  of  your  hair 
when  you  were  so  young  you  could  only  answer  her  by 
caresses.     1  wish  to  have  this  ring;  give  it  to  me— to   me 
your  lawful  husband,  now  that  in  me  is  concentrated 
your  whole  family  that  you  have  lost.     Give  me  what 
remains  to  you  that  belonged,  to  your  mother. 

She  was  about  to  rise,  but  pausing,  "Later,  "  she  said. 

"Why  not  now?  -^     * 

"  Dear,  1  always  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  your  love. 

I  inferred  it  from  your  jealous  fears,  and  my  only  sorrow 

was  in  not  being  able  to  quiet  your  suspicions.     All  you 

have  now  told  me  certainly  fills  me  with  joy,  but  does  net 


1  •■■;^0^-j;,;w.'';f.*i'",'^Uj_  „.t  4xTT^^'fi-n>:^  - 


at  all  surprise  me,  I  was  waiting  that  word  which  should 
t»ke  away  all  guilty  from  us;  1  was  waiting  because  I 
knew  you  loved  me,  also  because  you  are  good  and  gen- 
erous. Listen,  then:  On  the  day  of  our  marriage  I  Mill 
give  you  that  ring,  which  I  cannot  part  from  except  for 
the  sake  of  him  whom  I  lovo.  This  has  r.lways  been  my 
thought.  On  the  happy  dny  of  our  union  I  cannot  put 
on  my  head  the  orange  crown  every  bride  is  accustomed 
to  wear  in  going  to  the  altar.  That  ring  is  the  only  thing 
I  have  not  given  you.     It  will  be  my  nuptial  gift." 

Julius  would,  perhaps,  have  insisted.  Sat  just  at  that 
moment  Marion  entered.  She  seemed  diddppointed.  By 
means  of  signs,  she  made  her  mistress  understand  that 
she  had  not  found  the  usual  buyer  and  that  consequently 
she  had  brought  the  tapestry  back. 

"What  is' the  matter?"  asked  Julius,  who  had  already 
noticed  some  of  these  signs. 

"Nothing,"  answered  FHnuy,  smiling. 

**  Always  some  mysteries    ' 

"No"  and  she  embraced  him. 

In  order  to  change  the  course  of  Julius'  thoughts, 
she  added: 

"Plave  you  pondered  over  all  the  obstacles  to  this  our 
happy  union? 

Before  he  had  time  to  answer,  a  loud  noise  was  heard 
in  the  street,  usually  so  quiet.  Julius  ran  to  the  window, 
and  a  fc  w  steps  from  the  house  he  saw  a  fainting  woman 
sorrounded  by  a  crowd.  IJe  immediately  descended  into 
the  street  in  order  to  bring  help,  and  a  few  minutes 
afterward  lie  returned. 

"  Strange,"  he  said,  "  the  horse  of  my  cousin,  Mrs.  De 
Launay,  who  had  gone  to  her  business  man  to  take  an 
important  document,  has  fallen,  and  although  not  wound- 
ed,  the  fright  has  experienced  has  caused  her  to   swoon. 


'  ■ttsaacipaiffMiK'sg  gg!Bgs?K^'^;?^iisgg?JE»aat'iggV'.^ii>gsg'^^'^ 


t^hich  should 

g  because  I 

>d  aud  gen- 

riage  I  M'ill 

.  except  for 

lys  been  my 

cuiinot  put 

accustomed 

0  only  thing 

gift." 

just  at  that 
lointed.  By 
(rstund  thf.t 
onsequently 

had  already 


3'   thoughts, 

3  to  this  our 

was  heard 
the  window, 
ting  woman 
cended  into 
BW  minutes 

in,  Mrs.  De 
to  take  an 
not  wound- 
to   swoon. 


81 

I  shall  go  and  see  her  home.     (Jood-byo,  darling,   till 

to-morrow " 

Embracing  Fanny,  ho  quickly  departed.  Funny  went 
to  the  window  to  see  biiu  go.  Julius  (hire  not  to  look 
at  her. 


'^^^S^'S^^ 


m- 


in. 


..  THE  FRIEND. 

On  the  following  day,  wliilo  Julius  wa8  at  Fuunya' 
house,  a  scene  \va8  enucted  in  the  street  of  Lille,  the 
consequenceti  of  which  might  luive  destroyed  ull  the 
projects  of  the  two  lovers.  Mrs.  V'aluhert  hud  received  a 
visit  fronx  the  Countess  of  Septeuil,  a  lady  of  ancient 
nohility,  immensely  wealthy  and  in  friendly  intercourse 
with  many  jjersons  having  influence  at  court. 

The  conversation  hetween  these  two  had  heen  quite 
long.  A3  this  visit  was  a  very  important  and  not  an 
ordinary  one,  the  conversation,  at  the  beginning  cold  and 
reserved,  hud  gradually  become  lively  and  confidential, 
till  both  ladies,  af'ter  a  long  diplomatical  discourse,  had 
thought  it  convenient  to  explain  the  cause  which  had 
brought  them  together. 

The  interview  hud  ended,  and  Mrs.  Valabert  was  al- 
ready accompanying  the  Countess  to  the  door  of  the  hall, 
and  the  two  ladies  had  reciprocally  exchanged  parting 
salutations,  friendly,  although  full  of  dignity,  when  the 
arrival  of  two  other  persons  delayed  their  separation  a 
few  minutes. 

One  of  the  two  comers  was  a  gentleman  of  about  forty 
or  forty-five  years  of  age,  with  an  open  face  which  ind- 
icated most  splendid  h3alth  and  complete  absence  of  all 
sorrow.  His  manners  were  those  of  a  man  who,  although 
accustomed  to  mingle  in  high  society,  lacks  grace  and 
elegance  of  carriage.  His  prominent  gray  eyes  express- 
ed a  constant  satisfaction  and  happiness.  He  ^held  his 
head  aloft  like  those  who,  proud  of  themselves,  believe 
that  they  produce  in  others  the  same  favorable  impress- 


■  ■^!iP'^f5S^*^^^Krs^3H^:?^-' 


tB 


\t  Fuunya* 
r  Lille,  tho 
ed  all  tho 
[  roceived  a 
of  ancient 
intercourse 

beon  quite 
md  not  an 
ug  cold  and 
ontidentiul, 
jourse,  had 
which  had 

ert  was  al- 
of  tlieliall, 
;(fd  parting 
,  when  the 
;paration   a 

about  forty 
which  ind- 
ence  of  all 
10,  although 
grace  and 
^es  express- 
le  ^held  his 
ves,  believe 
)le  impress- 


ion they  f«el  whenerer  ihey  place  thcmielTCS  before  u 
in  rror.  Mr.  Sttiiit-GHletr  hnd'  left  the  army  at  the  tim« 
of  th«  8«c(md  resttiuration  and  thrown  hiinveU  into  spe^:- 
ulatiotHi,  and)  like  many  othen*,  had  streceeded  without 
knowing  what  he  was  doing.  Chance  bad  made  hirn  a 
wealthy  man  and  riches  made  hrm  fai.  Yh«  person  who 
aceonipanied  him  was  a  young  lady  who  may  have  beeii 
about  twenty-six  years  of  age,  and  who  appeared  neither 
more  nor  less.  Her  features  had  kept  the  freshness  and 
delicacy  of  youth,  her  smile  was  enchantiug  and  all  h«'r 
raovemeuts  were  calm,  pleasant  and  symmetrical.  Her 
beauty  was  not  that  which  strikes  one  at  the  Hrst  glance, 
but  rather  that  which  iusiimates  itself  little  by  little  and 
engraves  itself  on  the  heart,  and  which,  though  scarcely 
exciting  desire,  is  yet  the  most  certeiiiio  retain  the  love 
it  hai  produced.  Her  dark  complexion  was  in  strong 
contrast  with  her  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair,  bat  these  almost 
sure  signs  of  a  passionate  organization,  in  which  are 
mixed  two  different  and  opposite  natures,  voluptuous 
kkuguor  and  ardent  vivacity,  were  beKetl  by  her  quiet 
behavior  and  an  expression  of  kindness.  When  she  used 
to  raise  her  eyes  toward  any  person,  one  would  say  thnt 
she  was  k)oking  for  some  grief  to  eonm^le,  and  wottld 
su[ipo8e  that  only  the  troubles  of  ^ther  people  could  ruffle 
the  quietness  of  her  soul. 

lu  spite  of  all  these  qualities,  Adele  De  Launay  h$tA 
never  been  h«ppy.  Attwenty-on«  she  had  married  a  man 
twice  her  age*  Not  haring  known  love's  infktnation,  eh& 
bad  not-eveik  had  the  opportunity  vf  experiencing  that 
qaiet  hdtppiness  which  surely  possesses  a^  greater  value 
and  lasts  longer.  Her  ho8\band  wa!s  one  ef  those  men 
wiMiout  virtues  or  vices,  whose  lrv«9  run  from  one 
project  to  another,  planning  sehemee  'whieli  are  aom\ 
given  up  fot  ttew  anes;  one  €>£  those  incomplete  natures 


^■.ii:.  l*i4i(itiK-*;ii»  iof-tti?*^*'  '"-t--^ 


without  will  or  natieuce,  that  vegetate  everywhere  with- 
out bearing  fruit.  She  had  followed  him  to  various 
cities  where  ho  had  gone  for  foolish  expei  iments  or  for 
industrial  speculations,  and  the  clearest  and  most  evident 
result  of  all  these  journayings  had  always  been  the  same, 
a  loss  of  time  and  capital.  Finally,  after  many  years  of 
this  roving  existence,  Mr.  De  Launay,  almost  ruined  but 
not  reformed,  had  been  enticed  in  a  new  scheme  which 
had  allured  him  on  account  of  his  remoteness  and  the 
probability  of  its  success.  With  the  remains  of  his 
fortune,  he  had  laden  a  ship  with  goods  whic)i  he  intend- 
f  d  to  sell  in  South  America  atfifly  pci  cent,  profit,  and  this 
time  he  had  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  expedition, 
having  agreed  with  his  wife  that  she  should  remain  in 
Paris  wliile  waiting  for  ihe  ga/eons. 

Of  her  own  dowry  Mrs.  De  Launay  had  saved  one. 
hundred  thousand  francs,  which  her  husband  could  not 
touch.  Mrs.  Valabert,  her  distant  cousin,  who  had  many, 
times  good  occasion  to  appreciate  her,  had  requested  her 
to  come  and  reside  with  her.  Adele  had  accepted  this, 
pfier,  which,  at  the  same  time  leaving  her  free  and 
mistress  of  her  movements,  afforded  her  protection  and 
^  iiome  befitting  her  age  and  position,  and  she  had  now 
being  residing  in  that  house  for  six  months. 

Saint-Gilles,  on' perceiving  the  Countess  of  Septeuil, 
assumed  a  more  contented  air,  and  his  eyes  were  enabled 
to  express  somethjng  a  little  resembling  thought.  With 
an  awkward  and  very  evident  intention  of  Jpkii^g,  he 
addressed  a  few  complimentt  to  the  noble  lady,  and  con- 
gratulations upon  uieeting  her  at  Mrs.  Valabert'sj.  On 
her  part,  Adele  De  Launay  had  contented  herself  with 
boving  to  Mrs.  Septeuil,  As  soon  as  the  Countess  had 
left,  Saint-Gilles  and  the  two  ladies  went  into,  the  parlor 

There  Mrs  Valabert  addressed  Adele  thus:    . 


85 


liere  wilh- 
to  various 
iits  or  for 
ost evident 
1  the  same, 
y  years  of 
:uiued  but 
Miie  which 
is  and  the 
ins   of  his 

he  intend- 
[it,  and  this 
expedition, 

remain  in 

saved  one. 

could  not 
)  had  many, 
guested  her 
cepted  this, 
r  free  and 
ection  and 
3  had  nov 

)f  Septeuil, 
ere  enabled 
ght.  With 
Joking,  he 
f,  and  con- 
bert,'?|.  On 
lerself  with 
luntess  had 
the  parlor 


"  Cousin,  you  well  know  our  agreement,  absolute  and 
lull  freedom  as  well  for  you  as  for  me.  This  morning 
you  wished  Saint-Gilles  to  accompany  you  while  shopping 
at  several  places.  Be  pleased  now  to  give  him  back  to 
me  as  we  have  need  to  converse  together. " 

"  Since  you  wish  to  be  aloue,  I  will  retire.  " 

"  Before  you  go,  "  replied  Mrs.  Viilabert, "  allow  nie  to 
repair  an  involuntary  negligence.  Yesterday  I  was 
somewhat  ill,  this  morning  you  went  out  early  without 
lay  having  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  I  hope  that  you 
have  not  received  bad  news?" 

"None,  my  dear  cousin,"  answered  Adele,  "  and  I 
thank  you  for  the  interest  you  take  in  all  that  concerns 
luy  welfare." 

After  these  remarks,  she  retired  to  her  own  apartments. 

Saint  Gilles  gazed  after  her,  saying: 

"  That  crazy  fellow,  De  Launay,  is  happier  than  he 
deserves  to  be.  Here  is  a  woman  who  loves  him  in  spite 
of  all  his  extravagancies.  If  he  would  write  her  to  join 
him,  I  would  not  be  surprised  if  she  should  at  once  obey. 
While  he  could  have  quietly  enjoyed  such  a  treasure  at 
home,  he  become  a  merchant  of  Cologne  water  and 
English  soap  in  the  other  hemisphere.  There  are  some 
persons,  who  although  their  heads  were  full  of  eyes,  would 
not  be  able  to  see  clearly. " 

**  Yes, "  answered  Mrs.  Valabert,  sadly,  "  there  are 
passions  impossible  to  be  explained;  some  spurn  virtue, 
some  do  not  know  vice.  " 

"Oh!"  said  Saint-Gilles,  who  had  already  without 
ceremony  seated  himself  in  an  easy-chair,  his  legs  crossed 
and  his  body  reclining,  "  what  has  happened?  Did  the 
Countess  departed  disappointed?  " 


"  Yes;  friend. " 
•*  Why  so.  " 


w^*^ 


"  Beoausd  thero  exists  an  obstacle  which  you.  do  not 
know,  and  wliii?}^  we  cai^iot  say  that  Ave  wiU'-  be  ablfe  to 
ovesDome." 

"Whatisitf" 

"  It  is  just  to  speak  to  you  of  it,  and  to  usk  your  advice 
that  I  have  wished  to  be  alone  with  you," 

Mrs.  Valabert  brought  another  easy-chair  near  Mr. 
Saint-Gilles,  and  sat  down  beside  him. 

Before  we  let  them  begin  their  confiddnces,  it  is  ne- 
cessary to  explain  briefly  the  friendship  which  existed 
between  these  two  persons. 

Saint- Gillea  was  a  bachelor.  Mrs.  Valabert  was  a 
widow,  but  (w^hich  is  rarely  the  case)  their  relations  were 
truly  based  upon  pure  and  holy  fi^ieiidship.  JUliua'  mo- 
ther was  virtuous  not  only  on  account  of  her  trainingbut 
by  nature.  Cold  and  calin  in  her  youth,  she  had  never 
adu;>itted  the  possibility  of  a  fault,  and  the  love  which 
enrfiptured  the  senses,  love  without  marriage,  was  cons- 
idered by  her  a  chimera  or  a  vice  without  excuse,  like 
hypocrisy,  falsehood  or  theft. 

Saint-Gilles  had  received  many  favors  from  Mrs.  Vala- 
bert, fbr  which  he  had  shown  himself  very  grateful.  He 
continued  to  visit  the  widow,  and  little  by  little  made 
hi,mself  indispensable  to  her.  He  had  no  equal  in 
bestowing  trifling  attentions  and  in  busying  himself 
with  other  people's  affairs.  Always  at  the  disposal  of 
whoever  needed  him,  he  collected  rents,  canvassed  for 
mortgages  to  place  money,  arranged  preliminaries  of 
marriages  and  took  upon  himself  all  sorts  of  troubles  and 
every  kind  of  work.  Ih  short,  he  was  a  most  clever  and 
indefatigable  *' factotum. " 

"Friend,"  began  Mrs.  Valabert,  "to, you,  I  am  indebt- 
ed for  the  acquaintance  of  the  Countess  of  Bepteuil.  You 
were  the  first  who  thought  of  this  marriage,  so  advantagr 


ou.  do  not 
t>e  ablj^  to 


mr  advice 

uear  Mr.       i 

,  it  is  ne-       i 
cU  existed 

ert  wag  a 
tions  were 


mo- 


Uliua' 
:aining.but 
had  never 
ove  which 
was  cons- 
xcuse,  like 

Mrs.  Valifc- 
iteful.  He 
little  made 
>  equal  in 
ig  himself 
lisposal  of 
vassed  for 
inaries  of 
oubles  and 
clever  and 

;m  indebt- 

»uil.    You 

advantage 


:Z7 

eous  for  my  «on.  The  Countess  gave  her  consent  to  this 
union,  and  has  given  me  the  assurance  that  her  daughter 
made  no  opposition  to  it  whatever.  With  sorrow  I  have 
discovered  a  secret  which  fur  along  time  I  had  suspected* 
namely,  that  Julius  had  a  guilty  connection  with  a  person 
whom  he  is  passionately  in  love  with.  " 

"  Oh! "  replied  Saint-Gilles  in  a  very  easy  way,  "  at  his 
age  that  is  a  very  common  occurrence." 

"  Yes,  but  ho  will  not  part  with  this  woman.  " 

'*  Poll!  Julius  is  a  young  man  of  spirit,  who  will  not 
sacrifice  his  future  to  a  caprice.  Be  iit  ease.  Besides  he 
knows  of  the  negotiations  begun  with  the  Countess  and 
he  has  already  seen  her  daughter.  It  is  true  that  he  has 
not  consented  openly,  but  neither  has  he  refused.  If  he 
had  not  had  good  intentions,  he  would  not  have  allowed 
us  to  take  these  steps,  since  at  the  point  we  have  now 
-arrived,  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  break  them  off 
without  a  strong  and  reasonable  motive.  " 

"  We  have  not  positively  consulted  him,  and  have  on^y 
taken  his  silence  for  consent.  Perhaps  Julius  does  not 
even  know  that  the  Countess  came  this  morning  to  visit 
me.  Do  not,  be  mistaken  about  the  character  of  my  son. 
I  can  and  do  know  it  better  than  you.  He  is  a  man  who 
waits  for  the  last  moment,  not  only  to  make  a  definite 
decision,  but  also  to  communicate  to. you  his  resolve.  To 
display  courage,  he  needs  to  feel  danger.  He  loves  me, 
it  is  true,  but  although  his  love  is  sincere  and  deep,  he 
will  not.  yield  to  me. " 

"  And  who  is  the  object  of  his  passion?"  asked  Saint- 
Gilles,  "  perhaps  some  common  woman?  perhaps  an 
actress?, perhaps  a  dancer?  " 

"  Whoever  she  may  be,  she  must  be  a  woman  of  loose 
habits, "  replied  Mrs.  Valabert,  "  as  I  have  been  told  she 
is  young  and  beautiful;  she  belongs  to  an  honest  family, 


;»:-'-«si>*a^-«*--»5»^'-' 


and  unhappily  it  seems  that  she  has  received  a  splendid 
educatibh.  She  is  a  piano  teacher,  by  name,  Fanny " 

"  Fanny  Dusmenil?" 

"Exactly  that.     Do  you  know  her?  " 

"Certainly.  For  some  time  she  gave  lessons  to  my 
little  niece.  Beautiful  creature!  a  beautiful  morsfl,  I 
swear  to  you.  WhateyesI  What  beautiful  hands!  and  to 
all  that  she  adds  talent,  great  talent  indeed!  Julius  saw 
her  at  my  sister's  house.  One  day  she  sent  a  message 
notifying  us  that  she  could  not  come  any  more.  No  one 
could  guess  the  reason  of  such  a  resolve,  but  now  it  is  all 
explained.  Upon  my  word,  nobody  would  have  surmised 
it.  With  her  modest  demeanor,  she  must  be  an  old  fox. 
She  must  not  be  allowed  to  go  umpunished.  Where  does 
she  reside?  " 

"  Near  here,  in  Furstemberg  street,  I  believe.  " 

"  I  will  run  there  at  once, "  said  Saint-Gilles  raising.  " 

"  Dear  friend,  I  never  doubt  your  interest  in  me  and 
in  all  that  concerns  me.  Before  taking  any  steps,  I  must 
ask  another  favor.  Instead  of  going  to  see  this  young 
girl,  who  would  surely  complain  of  it  to  Julius,  exagg- 
erating your  words,  would  not  it  be  better  to  address  your 
remarks  to  my  son?  I  hesitate  to  speak  to  him.  He  is 
no  more  a  boy;  I  cannot  scold  him,  and  in  spite  of  my 
love,  I  could  with  great  difficulty  decide  to  be  a  witness 
to  his  blindness  and  to  hear  him  praise  the  woman  who 
deceives  him,  for  how  we  can  believe  in  the  virtue  of  a 
woman  who  even  for  once  has  forgotten  her  duty?  " 

"It  was  my  intention,"  answered  Saint-Gilles,"  to 
employ  the  quickest  means  to  cut  the  evil  at  its  root;  but, 
as  you  wish  it,  I  will  speak  to  Julius.  It  is  impossible 
that  he  will  not  recollect  himself.  Did  they  tell  you  that 
he  intended  to  marry  her?  " 

"  No,  but  if  perchance  he  were  about  to  do  so?" 


<w>w«ii>Mi*'^^wwwaww,i.iijfc!WM.a^^a'i>J^t-,'iJ-^^.MuaJi^.iW!j^ 


I 


a  splendid 
iiiiy " 


ious  to  my 
I  morspl,  I 
nds!  and  to 
Julius  saw 
a  message 
•e.  No  one 
low  it  is  all 
ve  surmised 
an  old  fox. 
Where  does 


}8  raising, 
in  me  and 
iteps,  I  must 
this  young 
lius,  exagg- 
iddress  your 
lini.  He  is 
ipite  of  my 
e  a  witness 
ivoman  who 
virtue  of  u 
luty?  " 
•Gilles,  "  to 
its  root;  but, 
impossible 
tell  you  that 

so?" 


8a 

"OKI  before  all,"  rsplied  Saint-GilW:  !'  We  must  not 
trust  this  princess.  I  pretend  to  be  a  godd  physiognomist, 
and  yet  I  would  have  given  her  the  communion  without 
confession.     We  have  no  time  to  lose;  all  theise  creatures 
have  a  fondness  for  marriage.    I  hope  Julius  will  open 
his  eyes.     He  is  in  love.    Wery  well;  he  will  fall  in  love 
with  his  bride,  who  is  also  a  beautiful  woman,  and  after 
eight  days  he  will  think  of  the  other  no  more.    After  all, 
we  have  a  last  resource  to  dry  the  tears  of  his  Ariadne. 
What  does  she  wish  for?     A  position?  money?  we  will 
give  her  half  of  what  she  asks,  showing  ourselves  good 
and    setting  the  matter  conveniently.     With  twenty  to 
twenty.five  bills  of  a  thousand  each,  all  will  be  made 
right.    With  this  sum  we  shall  send  this  young  lady  to 
her  penates  and  her  music  with  variations,  and  after  a 
time  she  will  many  some  young  artist,  whom  she  will 
make  happy.     I  will  take  it  into  my  hands  and   then 
who  shall  know?     Though  I  am  not  severe  like  you,  I 
think  it  really  very  probable  and  possible  that  she  may 
deceive  Julius.     lean  easily  believe  that  a  woman,  if 
mistress  of  herself  can  very  well  avoid  lovers,  but  as  soori 
I  know  she  has  a  lover,  I  am  justified  in  Supposing  her 
with  two  lovers.     We  shall  see;  and  while  we  are  await- 
ing the  result,  try  to  cheer  yourself. " 

The  conversation  M-as  pursued  a  little  further,  and 
Saint-Gilles  persuaded  Mrs.  Valabert'not  to  alarm  herself 
for  the  time  being,  and  to  continue  the  negotiations  with 
the  Countess.  His  arguments  with  Julius  did  not  secure 
the  result  desired.  The  reader  will  excuse  us  for  not 
repeating  here  the  very  excellent  reasons  he  presented 
and  urged  in  speaking  to  Julius;  it  will  be  enough  for  him 
to  know  that  none  of  them  were  received  with  favor,. 
Saint-Gilles  belonged  to  that  class  of  persons  who  believe 
in  being  useful  to  others  by  giving  them  advice  for  which 
they  have  not  asked. 


Tli«  h8p{>y  traniinillity  oi  that  {aniily  watt  coini4et<ely 
cli*ia;g«d.  Julius^  fearing  hi8Mioih«r*s  toaits  uaA.  prayers, 
«voif)6(l  her  prMenoe  as  much  as  posadUle,  and,  wlien 
^ith  her,  kept  «  cold  sitfeace.  Vainly  Adele  De  Launay 
endeavored  i*  >«nliven  the  conversation.  She  showed 
liersolf  more  Hian  usually  good,  thoughtful  and  uraiuble, 
but  no  explanation  had  ever  taken  place  in  her  presence; 
iioilher  had  she  been  admitted  into  confiilence,  so  that, 
granted  that  she  did  not  know  the  cause  of  this  coldness, 
she  was  in  no  way  authorized  to  provoke  a  decisive 
explanation.  Juiius,  on  the  other  hand,  had  completely 
concealed  from  J^'auny  the  opposition  he  experienced 
from  his  mother,  whose  mouth-piece  was  SaintGilles. 
lie  strengthened  himself  in  the  resistance,  always  fearing 
the  moment  when  in  a  irrevocable  manner  he  would  be 
obliged  to  siginify  his  firm  resolve.  He  hoped  that  Saint- 
Gilles, acknowledging  the  inutility  of  his  attempt  and 
tired  of  the  struggle,  would  cease  his  t.nnoyance. 

In  this  false  situation  many  days  passed,  but  the 
catastrophe  was  des  ined  to  come.  One  naommg  Mrs. 
Valttbf  rt's  house  took  on  the  appearance  of  festivity;  the 
servants  were  going  and  coming  with  a  buay  air.  Julius, 
on  returning  houM  at  noon,  noticed  all  this  stir,  and 
was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  ioftccount  for  it.  Just  as  he 
was  going  to  «m^  the  reason  of  it,  the  door  of  the  parlor 
i«  which  he  was,  opened.  Mrs.  Valabert  waa  coming 
from  her  &partraents,  dressed  and  in  the  act  of  going  out. 

Stopping  l»efore  her  son,  she  said  to  him: 

"  1  am  very  glad  to  meet  you.  I  hope  that  you  will 
have  no  engageofteut  for  this  afternoon,  and  if  you  had 
intended  to  go  out,  I  beg  you  to  sacrifice  this  evening  to 
me,  as  I  am  expecting  a  numerous  company." 

"Whom?" 

*•  Many  friends  innong  whom  will  be  the  Countess  of 


n5T-5aJB^»i«agsr«;- . 


fd  prayers, 
,nd,  wlien 
e  Launav 
le  showed 

uraiuble, 
presence; 
I,  so  tlmt, 
i  coldness, 
I  decisive 
lompletely 
:perienced 
lintGlUes. 
lys  fearing 
would  be 
hat  Saint- 
empt  and 
e. 

,  but  the 
amg  Mrs. 
bivitv;  the 
ir.  Julius, 

stir,  and 
ust  fts  he 
llie  parlor 
IS  coming 
goitxg  out. 

YOU  will 
'  you  had 
veiiiTig  to 


luntfcss  of 


m 

Septeuiland  her  daughter. "—"Madam!" interrupt- 

ed  Julius. 

But  his  mother,  who  had  spoken  these  words  almost 
hurriedly,  as  ctne  who  would  see  no  reason  for  objection, 
had  already  crossed  tbe  parlor.  A  servant  came  to  tell 
her  that  the  carriage  was  ready. 

In  his  first  emotion  of  surprise,  Julius  had  let  her  go. 
Immediately  he  understood  that,  by  disposing  of  him  in 
such  a  way,  his  affectionate  mother  had  made  the  last 
effort.  Thus  he  would  have  been  under  the  necessity  of 
letting  others  believe  in  his  silent  approval,  or  by  refusing 
to  be  present  to  break  all  the  negotiations,  which  could 
be  considered  bad  manners,  and  would  have  comproniis- 
ed  even  his  mother.  And  yet  this  was  the  only  course 
left  to  him.  • 

This  elaborate  snare,  so  easily  to  be  avoided,  in  which 
they  were  trying  to  entrap  him,  was  more  unbearable 
than  serious  and  strong  obstacles.  He  had  seated  himself, 
pjmdering  how  to  act.  Julius  thought  himself  alone,  and 
was  amazed  to  feel  u  hand  laid  on  the  back  of  his  easy 
chair,  while  a  sweet  voice  thus  spoke: 

•'  You  are  sad,  cousin;  is  it  not  true?  " 

Julius  turned  and  saw  Mrs.  De  Launay  gazing  at  him 

with  interest. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  there?  "  he  asked.  "  I  do 
not  remerabei:  have  seew  you  come  in.  " 

"  I  was  in  your  moiher's  room.  I  arrived  just  when 
she  left  the  drawing-room,  but  lovers  have  neithev  ears 
nor  eyes,  and  1  am  not  offendedatyottsabsentmindedness. 
All  your  attention  must  be  given  to^ilER. " 

"  Then  you  know  alit "  , 

«  Yes;  this  evening  party  had  already  been  arranged 
four  days  ago.  It  is  a  litt\e  plot  prepared  by  Mr.  baint- 
Gilles,  to  which  my  cousin  has  given  her  consent.  Neither 
the  former  nor  the  latter  will  believe  that  your  love  is 
deeo  and  sincere. " 


i.  j)it--:rtftiii ,  i  v.:^-'>aWlArJiMi-*ia.^-^»^v:4-:^'^>^^>'^-.?">^-''*^^^  '•  ttj- 


.^ii'iir j-ij«fc»^  y-'^4  ^^?;.,X^^^ytiS,^v,-r;. 


"  And  you  believe  it  to  be  80?  "       -w  % 

"  I?  I  ought  to  huve  been  a  diviner,  as  neither  you 
nor  your  mother  ever  spoke  to  me  of  it.  All  that  I  do 
know  I  have  learned  from  your  sadness  and  from  some 
few  words  heard  by  chance  or  willingly  listen  to.  " 

"  If  they  had  consulted  you,  what  would  have  been 
your  answer?  " 

"I  should  have  refused  to  enter  this  plot.  " 

"Why?" 

"Because  one  cannot  betray  one's  allies." 

"  Then  you  pity  me' " 

"  If  I  had  not,  would  you  see  me  here?  " 

"  Kind  Adele,  I  am  suffering;  yes,  I  am  unhappy. " 

"  And,  nevertheless,  you  love  and  are  loved?  " 

"  Without  a  shadow  of  doubt." 

•'  What  else  do  you  want?  A  happiness  which  only 
depends  upon  yourself!  Listen  to  me:  I  always  thought 
that  women,  better  than  men,  know  how  to  love,  because 
when  they  feel  a  strong  passion,  they  do  not  look  at  the 
difficulties  and  ure  ready  to  defy  death,  while  you  men  do 
not  know  how  to  bear  a  moment  of  embarrassment  or  of 
shame." 

"You are  right;  I  am  feeble,  and  I  fear  to  bring  afflic- 
tion on  n)y  mother. " 

"  Or,  perhaps,  to  repent  yourself  some  day?  " 

"  Oh  I  never,  never! if  you  know  her! " 

"  Speak  to  me,  then,  with  open  heart.  I  fear  that  all 
that  I  am  now  to  do  or  to  say  may  be  wrong.  I  ought  to 
remain  neutral.  But  a  friend  will  be  allowed  to  ask  for 
your  confidence,  when  another  has  taken  upon  himself 
the  right  of  torturing  you  without  consulting  you.  Answer 
me,  then.     Is  she  beautiful?  " 

"  Without  her  I  cannot  live." 

"  She  is  beautiful,  yes,  without  doubt,  but  I    meant  to 


i,'Ai'lfftf|i7'i'>.WB'UWffl-'.j.,B^!i,»jt^ag,?»^!a^llVl»'-'»M»W!Wi8^^ 


.  i^'BaSKiT 


either  you 
that  I  do 
from  some 
to." 
have  been 


appy. 


» 


rhich  only 
ys  thought 
ve,  because 
look  at  the 
'ou  men  do 
smentor  of 

(ring  afflic- 


»ar  that  all 

I  ought  to 

to  ask  for 

ou  himself 

>u.  Answer 


meant  to 


say  remarkably  bepntiful -." 

"  More  flo  tha. .  j  ourself ,  my  cousin ;  "  but  he  soon  added, 
•'  at  least  I  believe  so  " 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it?  and  do  you  not  deceive  me?    Has 
she  spirit?"  .   .■ 

"  Very  much  indeed  and,  joined  with  simplicity,  thnt 
spirit  which  comes  from  the  heart,  like  yours,  cousin.  " 

"  Pray  do  not  use  me  as  a  comparison,  "  answered 
Adele  smiling,  "  and  I  am  not  questioning  you  to  hear 
her  praises.  After  all,  you  love  her,  and  this  is  the  main 
point.  Are  you  sure  that  she  also  loves  you,  and  that  she 
never  loved  another?    Is  she  virtuous?  " 

"  He  who  would  try  to  say  the  contrary  must  prove  his 
word  or  I  should  have  his  life. " 

"  Oh  friendl  if  your  heart  would  be  completely  free  and 
you  would  be  the  absolute  master  in  choosing  a  wife 
could  you  dare  to  hope  to  have  in  her  united,  talents 
spirit,  virtue?  and  because  you  have  been  so  fortunate  as 
to  find  such  a  woman  and  to  possess  such  a  treasure,  you 
spurn  it!  And  what  for?  Julius  search  your  heart.  Have 
you  never  reproached  her  with  the  love  you  have  inspir- 

ed  in  her?  " 

"Can  you  judge  me  so  unjust?  No;  Fanny,  in  my  eyes, 
is  the  most  virtuous  woman  in  all  the  world.  " 

"  Marry  her,  then,  and  do  not  ask  me  for  advice. " 

"  I  shall  take  advice  only  by  myself,  my  good  cousin. 
My  present  embarassment  lies  in  finding  a  way  to  break 
this  projected  marriage. " 

"  It  ia  your  own  fault.  Why  have  you  not  spoken  u 
month  ago? 

"  I  am  well  decided  not  to  appear  this  evening,  but  how 
shall  I  avoid  a  scandal?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  any  way.  The  rupture  ought  to  come 
from  the  Countess,  not  from  you.     Were  I  you,  I  would 


:^jmcy. 


ir^,-ir,.-.*t^  .^-.:.^-f.^^Ai^  --,-; 


.■-,=^i5.,?i.i'S»i=  i! 


^4 

not  worry  mytiell' until  to-night.  Yes,  on  my  Monl.  Who 
k now3  but  some  );ooi]  angel  will  wrttdh  over  you?  Often, 
jiiat  when  we  feel  very  unhappy,  we  find  oUr8G!lve8  near 
to  happiness.  Hope!  these  moments  of  tranquillity  will 
be  BO  many  stolen  from  future  grief,  and  perhaps  even 
these  last  will  not  come.  " 

Before  Julius,  who  shared  not  this  confidence,  could 
ask  her  what  cause  inspired  her  with  it,  the  drawing- 
room  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Valabert  came  in.  She  had 
a  serious  and  preoccupied  mien,  and  was  crumpling  in 
lior  hand  a  letter  which  had  arrived  in  her  absence  qnd 
which  had  been  given  her  by  the  porter  on  h'-r  return. 

"  My  son, "  she  said,  in  a  voice  which  hardly  concealed 
her  emotion,  "  you  are  free  and  niaster  of  your  evening, 
hady  Septeuil  writes  me  that  she  U  not  able  to  accept 
my  invitation.  Send  a  servant  to  Mr.  Saint-Gilles,  and, 
if  he  is  at  home,  tell  him  to  call  as  soon  as  possible, " 
and  she  departed,  murmuring  a  few  words  that  her  son 
was  not  able  to  understand. 

This  becoud  apparition,  so  different  fr'^tn  the  first, 
amazed  Julius.    Glancing  at  his  cousin,  he  b.'iid: 

"  Adele,  what  were  you  saying  a  little  whi'  •  ago;  that 
the  rupture  ought  to  come  from  Mrs.  de  Septeuil?  But 
this  seems  a  true  rupture;  you,  perhaps,  were  cognizant 
of  it?" 

•' Iliad  hoped  for  It.  " 

"  The  angel  who  was  wettching  over  me  was  then  you?  " 

••  Hush! "  said  she, "  be  silent! " 

He  replied  in  a  low  voice:  '•  But  how  it  happened  all 
this?  Please  explain  yoursef,  that  I  may  be  aWe  to 
tliHiik  you. " 

*•  What  I  have  done  is  of  little  importance.  I  will  tell 
you  about  it  later,  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  not  to  reproach 
me  with  having  guessed  whfit  you  had  not  told  me.    Now 


•'»i)ij|ii^'i-.jjnL.w»ji;;p.»aiM;»..  'J, !,  ,^;^■^.^^'.;,'^"^W"y;5--'-"■^.■-^-'iw■J:  ,;.J:v4.tg!.i""^-:Egigsr.'' 


.-ortl.  Who 
u?  Often, 
Bilvea  near 
lillity  will 
hnps  even 

uce,  could 
drawing- 
She  had 
mpling  in 
sence  qnd 
p  return, 
concealed 
r  evening, 
to  accept 
[lies,  and, 
possible," 
t  her  80U 

the  first, 
3: 

ago;  that 
mil?  But 
cognizant 


aen  you?  " 

ipened  all 
B  a'ble  to 

I  will  tell 
)  reproach 
me.    Now 


4j5 

let  us  part — not  a  word,  more,  not  a,  sign  nor  a  look  of 
intelligence.  I  saw  you  so  unhappy,  here  is  the  excuse 
and  explanation  of  my  condUot;  to  morrow,  or  in  a  few 
dfeys,  you  will  entreat  your  mother,  and  she,  perhaps,  will 
be  moved  by  your  prayer.  Do  not  vaste  your  time  with 
me,  go  to  Heh;  go,  friend,  and  love  her  always  because 
she  is  worthy  of  you.    Good  bye. " 

Mrs.  Valubert's  pride  had  been  offended  by  the  action 
of  the  Countess;  and  the  latter  was  too  proud  to  retract. 
All  the  diplomacy  of  Mr.  Saint-Gilles  failed  to  bring 
about  a  renewal  of  the  negotiations.  Mrs.  De  Launay 
fearing  sooner  or  later  she  might  be  involved  in  these 
family  discussions,  went  into  the  country  for  a  f«w  days, 
to  the  residence  of  a  friend  of  Julius'  mother. 

Julius  was  not  able  immediately  to  obtain  the  consent 
he  asked  for.  Every  time  Mrs.  Valabort  was  moved  by 
her  son's  prayers,  Saint-Gilles,  who  had  considered  as  his 
own  business  the  rupture  of  this  marriage,  reproached 
her  with  her  feebleness.  Saint-Gilles  had  not  been  able  to 
put  in  execution  his  first  scheme  of  addressing  himself 
to  Fanny,  because  Julius  was  continually  with  her.  Fi- 
nally  frightened  at  the  anxiety  and  agitation  of  her  son, 
Mrs.  Valabert  yielded  on  condition  that  she  should  not 
see  her  daughter-in-law.  Juiius  at  about  twenty  leagues 
from  Paris,  owned  a  villa  which  was  comprised  in  his 
father's  esta.e.  The  interesting  condition  of  Fanny  not 
permitting  him  to  present  her  in  society,  he  had  resolved 
to  take  her  to  this  little  country  residence.  In  order  to 
announce  her  the  day  fixed  for  the  marriage  and  make 
known  to  her  his  last  arrangements,  he  went,  as  usual,  to 
the  house  in  Furstemberg  street. 

Occupied  with  his  thoughts,  he  was  walking  rapidly 
Just  as  he  wa$  nearing  the  door  of  Fanny's  house,  he 
encountered  upon  a  younj  man  issuing  from  it.     "While 


:-'i«*:"*-vS»eV''-»,:*'i'  ■■*-'-■• 


46 

ringing  the  bell,  hU  heart  was  trobbing.  Ho  rcproactied 
biinaelf  for  the  injurious  suspicions  continually  torturing 
hini  in  spite  of  his  love.  On  entering,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  Marion  was  confused  and  that  Fanny  blushed  when 
he  narrated  his  encounter,  but  he  ended  l>y  being  osham- 
ed  of  his  jealous  suspicions,  and  soon  restored  by  Funny's 
tender  and  arftct:o»mto  looks,  ho  forgot  all  to  think  only 
of  the  near  future  whicli  i)ronused  to  be  so  calm  and 
happy.  The  villa  to  which  he  intended  to  take  his  wife 
had  not  been  inhabited  for  three  years.  It  was  necessary 
to  put  it  in  order.  It  was  ajjreod  that  Julius  pVmni.l  jro 
alone  and  remain  absent  from  Pnris  for  eight  days,  the 
time  to  complete  the  pre])ttrations. 

From  the  moment  when  they  had  begun  to  love  each 
other,  this  was  their  flrst  separation,  and  although  it 
would  last  no  long,  the  parting  was  us  painful  as  if  they 
were  never  to  meet  again. 

On  his  reUirn  to  Paris,  Julius  Valubert  received  the 
anonymous  letter  copied  by  Ternisien,  the  address  of 
which,  as  stated  in  the  first  chapter,  had  beeti  written  by 
a  different  person.  ^  ,, 


r--.   .         '. 


.  ■  '*  ''\* 


,  t.       'I    i 


?proaclied 
torturing 
id  to  him 
lied  when 
ig  osham- 
y  Funny's 
link  only 
culm  and 
his  wife 
lu'ceasary 

days,  the 

lovo  each 
though  it 
IS  if  they 

eived  the 
iddrcss  of 
k'ritten  by 


.•.  i\. 


IV. 


THKTltlAri 


Seated  in  the  samf  rooiu   whoi'e  wo  siiw   Ikt  before, 
Fanny  kt  her  eyes  dadly  wander  from  the  window  to  the 
door,  listening  tj  every  noise  and  showing  in  her  features 
fear  rather  tliun  hope.     Do  you  renienibei-  with  what  joy 
she  had  heon  animated   when   Julius   brought   her   the 
announCcMuent  of  his  resolve?    Why,  instead,  we  do  find 
her  so  sad  to-day?     Because  the  nearer  Ihe  time  appoint- 
ed for  her  nuptials  approached,   the   more   she   felt  her 
lieart  oppressed  by  a  fatal  presentiment.     Eight  days  had 
already  passed  since  Julius'  departure,  and  this  absence, 
the  first  she  experienced,  had  left  her  alone  with  the  fears 
of  her  heart  without  defense,  and  at  the  same  time  expos- 
ed her  to  some  intrigues  which  had  poisoned  her  solitude. 
The  day  foUowing  the  departure  of  Julius,  a  gentleman 
whom  she  remembered  to  have  eeen  previously  at  the 
house  of  her  young  pupil,  Miss  Saint-Gilles,  had  called  on 
her  and  without  preamble  or  formality  had  spoken  to  her 
of  the  Bchenies  of  Julius*  family,  of  the  brilliant  hopes 
destroyed  by  his  love  for  her,  of  the  grief  that  every  one 
hudfelt  and  the  pain  with  which  they  had  consented  to 
this  union,  and  finally  lie  mentioned  a  last  hope  founded 
on  Far.ny's  generosity,  that  she  might  persuade  Julius 
himself  to  consent  to  what  was  wished  from  him.     Saint- 
Gilles  did  not  forget  to  adorn  his  speech  with  flattering 
words  and  praises:  Fanny  would  be  esteemed   by  every- 
body; no  one  would  be  surprised  to  hear  that  she  herself 
learning  of  the  existing  difhculties,  had  sacrificed  her  own 
love  to  the  future  happiness  of  Julius;  that  all  knew  her 


4f. 

to  bo  so  unselfish  as  not  to  hesitate  before  such  a  sacrifice. 
They  knew  also  that  she  was  so  sincere  in  her  love  that 
she  would  prefer  the  interests  of  Julius  to  her  own.  All 
these  things  had  been  spoken  cautiously  but  with  a  tune 
in  which  one  could  easily  perceive  the  skepticim  of  a 
wordly  man,  ready  to  deny  every  kind  of  true  and  sublime 
affection.  There  still  remained  the  last  alternative,  that 
of  pecuniary  comf-ensatiou  in  exchange  for  so  many 
destroyed  hopes.  Although  Saint-Gilles  bad  relied  very 
much  upon  the  slrenght  of  this  argument,  he  dare  not 
speak  of  it.  Fanny's  demeanor  had  made  such  an  im- 
pression on  him  as  to  prevent  him  from  uttering,  the 
words,  ^^ pecuniary  compensation. "  Saint-Gilles  took  his 
leave  without  receiving  a  positive  answer,  but  obtained 
from  her  a  promise  to  let  him  know  her  decision. 

The  following  day,  after  anight  of  wakefulness  anrl 
fever,  she  sent  him  a  note  containing  these  simple  words: 
"  Address  yourself  to  Julius. "  Thus  the  negotiations  were 
sent  again  to  the  same  field  on  which  he  had  always  been 
beaten.  These  attempts,  this  appeal  to  her  generosity 
«^nd  this  exaggerated  picture  of  M^s.  Valabert's  grief 
destroyed  Fanny's  confidence  by  showing  the  present 
full  of  struggles  and  dangers,  the  future  dark  and  un* 
certain  For  the  first  tim3  she  paused  to  ponder  on  the 
intrigues  and  plots  of  every  kind  which  a  powerful  and 
also  ambitious  family  might  organize  against  her.  She 
had  been  unable  to  give  a  very  clear  answer  to  Mr.  Saint- 
Gilles,  because  she  dare  not  to  reveal  to  this  railer  the 
sacred  motive  which  made  it  a  duty  for  her  to  resist  his 
insinuations.  , 

"If  instead  of  this  man,  "she  said  to  herself,  "Julius' 
mother,  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  had  come  in  person  to  me, 
I  would  have  thrown  myself  to  her  feet  and  spoken  thus: 
'  Pity,  and  do  not  despise  me.     If  it  were  only  a  question 


1  a  sacrifice, 
r  love  that 
r  own.  All 
with  a  tune 
)ticim  of  a 
\nd  sublime 
lative,  that 
ir  so  manv 
relied  very 
16  dare  not 
icli  an  im- 
ittering.  the 
es  took  his 
at  obtained 
lion. 

fulness  aorl 
mple  words: 
iations  were 
always  been 
'  generosity 
ibert's  grief 
the  present 
jk  and  un^ 
ider  on  the 
•werful  and 
st  her.  She 
,o  Mr.  Saint- 
s  railer  the 
o  resist  bis 

eif,  "Julius' 
erson  to  me» 
spoken  thus: 
Y  a  question 


40 

of  my  happines,  I  would  sacrifice  it  without iiesitatlfl|li^, 
if  I  liad  only  to  renounce  Julius,  although  I  love  him 
with  all  the  strenght  of  my  soul,  I  would  depart,  T  would 
hide  myself,  and  neither  you,  nor  he,  nor  any  livihjj 
person  would  hear  of  me  again.  Perhaps  finally' he  wouM 
be  able  to  forget  me  and  might  some  day  be  happy,  and 
you  enjoying  his  happiness,  would  think  of  me  absent,, 
and  in  your  heart  thank  me,  and  this  thought  will  brin<^ 
consolation.  But,  alas!  if  I  should  act  in  such  a  manner; 
another  voice  would  rise  to  accuse  me,  a  being  dear  t« 
me  whom  I  must  love  as  you,  inadam,  love  your  son^, 
would  ask  of  me  an  account  of  a  sacrifice  which  would 
deprive  him  of  a  name,  of  a  family,  of  a  future,  and  yqu^ 
yourself,  who  are  so  good,  would  you  advise  me  to  become, 
ft  bad  mother?'" 

Carried  away  by  hor  grief  for  an  instant,  she  thought 
of  going  to  Mrs.  Valabert,  to  declare  all  to  her  and  place 
herself  under  her  protection,  but  was  prevented  by  shame. , 
If  she  had  been  acquainted  with  Mrs.  De  Lannay,j  that 
friend  so  sincere  and  indulgent,  whose  generous  act  Julius 
had  narrated  to  her,  she  would  have  confided  in  her  and 
thought  herself  safe.    Timidity  detained  her. 

Thus  for  eight  mortal  days,  alone,  a  prey  to  her   fears,- 
she  saw  no  other  help  than  Julius,  who  was  absent,  aind 
whose  weakness  of  character  she  dreaded.     How  many; . 
varied  tortures  aftlicted   her   mind,   always  disposed  i^ 
exaggerate  evil!     The  humiliation  she  expected  and  the - 
repentance  that  Julius  would  perhaps  experience  wh©U 
his  passion   had   abated,  would  leave  him  under  the. 
ascendancy  of  his  mother.     Perhaps,  also,  that  jealousy, 
which  he  was  unable  to  control,  would,  some  day,  bring; 
him  to  suspect  hor  who  had  not  known  how  to  resist  hjs 
seductions  because,    strange  as  it  is,  ladies  are  alway-s 
punished  for  their  sins  by  the  same  persons  for  whose 


,t^.>t..j;l-JC.i.r'l.<-^S:JtVSJntJII'*- 


50 


■  \ 

i 


suko  they  sin,  and  who  gather  in  the  fruit  of  their   criiru'^ 
'  I'll  thig'iuanner,  after  the   infatuation  of  her  passion, 
Panuy  was  experiencing  the  first  trial  of  life,  and,  instead 
of  peace  and  happiness  in  her   soul,  she  met  douhts  and 
friars  at  every  step. 

As  a  last  refuge,  there  remained  to  her  the  remem- 
lirance  and  thought  of  Julius.  She  plunged  so  deep  into 
it  as  to  forget  everything  else.  Had  she  been  possessed 
of  cooler  blood,  or,  better,  had  she  a  more  complete 
khowledge  of  evil  and  of  the  advantage  that  slander  takes 
of  every  circumstances  even  the  moat  trivial,  slie  would 
lirtve  anticipated  by  her  explanation  the  unhappy  cir- 
cumstances which  might  cloud  her  reputation.  She 
v.'ould  have  felt  the  necessity  of  giving  an  account  and 
explaining  another  mysterious  visit  ^':e  had  received 
after  that  of  Saint-Gilles.  Her  love  made  her  forget  all 
this,  her  only  thoughts  being  of  her  Julius. 

At  last,  as  we  have  said,  the  eight  days  of  Julius'  ab- 
sence were    past.     She  w^as  waiting  for  him,  when  she 
was  aroused  by  a  sharp  pull  at  the  door-bell. 
■  *'  Here  he  comes! "  she  cried  and  ran  to  the  door. 

Julius  entered. 

Fanny's  joy  was  of  short  duration;  Julius  seemed  not 
the  same  man.  His  face  was  fearful  pale,  his  eyes  glaring, 
his  lips  trembling.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  courage  failed, 
and  in  silence  she  stood  gazing  at  him.  Without  utter- 
ing a  single  word,  he  shut  the  door  and  hurriedly  crossed 
the  room.     Fanny  followed  him. 

Julius  cast  at  her  a  dreadful  glance,  which  seemed  to 
penetrate  her  heart.  One  of  his  hands,  placed  under 
his  coat,  was  agitated  by  a  convulsive  movement.  With 
the  other  he  seized  Fanny  by  the  arm,  forcing  her  to 
itfimain  at  his  side. 

"  What  ails  you?    Julius  you  frighten  me.  ' 


^>Ji^'^-^^.^^~:»^-^'^l«^'^^l;)^s^S^ssiy^f^i^du^^^t^ai^ 


passion, 
I,  iustoad 
iihts  and 


rc'inem- 
dec'p  into 
possessed 
complete 
der  takes 
le  would 
ippy  cir- 
n.  She 
)unt  and 
received 
orget  all 

dius'  ab- 
vhen  she 

)or. 

)iaed  not 
3  glaring, 
ige  failed, 
ut  utter- 
ly crossed 

eemed  to 
3d  under 
it.  With 
ig  her  to 


51- 

"Sitdowu"  he  answered  with  a  i;;looniy  and  tliiimlen-- 
ing  -voice. 

She  sat  down  mechanically,  subdued  liy  tliat  command 
and  the  gesture  by  which  it  was  accompanied.  '     '  •/ 

Julius  had  made  an  unspeakable  effort  to  overcome  the 
emotion  which  oppressed  him.  Ho  was  no  longer  able 
to  restrain  himself.  For  a  few  moments  he  was  silent, 
as  if  collecting  himself  to  enjoy  at  his  leisure  the  con- 
tinually increasing  agitation  of  the  unfortunate  Fanny. 
Then,  without  even  ceasing  to  stare  at  her,  as  if  he  wished 
to  test  her,  he  coldly  and  briefly  said :  ^ 

"  So  then  you  have  deceived  me?  "  ■  ■"  '  >   ""' 

The  poor  girl,  dumb  with  amazement,  threw  herself 
back.  In  her  turn  she  felt  the  words  dying  on  her  iips» 
and  her  voice  strangled  in  her  throat.  1 

Julius,  who  yet  held  her  by  the  hand,  and  who  saw  her  ■ 
cast  down  by  such   unexpected  accusation,  shook    her 
fiercely,  and  with  a  tune  full  of  rage,  continued :  "  Answer, 
answer  me!  "  , 

Vainly  he  endeavored  to  awaken  her  out  of  that  dread-"' 
ful  dream.  She  answered  no  more,  inasmuch  cs  the 
thought  of  being  adjudged  guilty  had  never  occurred  to 
her  mind.  All  her  preceding  fears  were  justified;  the 
intrigues,  the  plots  she  dreaded  came  to  attack  her.  Fear- 
ful suspicion!  Julius,  perhaps  loved  her  no  mor6;  Julius, 
conquered  by  the  prayers  of  his  family  and  in  compact 
with  them  was  now  searching  for  a  pretest  for  a  rupture. 
A  fearful  abyss  had  opened  at  her  feet,  and  she  had  fallen 
into  it.  Julius  afraid  of  such  an  easy  triumph,  repressing 
himself,  thus  continued: 

"I  shall  try  to  be  calm.     Listen   to   me.    This  inter-    ; 
view,  perhaps,  will  be  the  last  one  between  us;  if  you 
cannot  justify  yourself,  it  will  be  an  everlasting  rupture,    , 
hut  I  shall  not  judge  without  having  first  heard  you.     If 


-i,;^..,<i^i-- ■•-&■. 


'f 


F^ 

p 


^P. 


you  have  tleceiv)e(l'm«,  you  were  very  guilty,  T)ecause  T 
Imd  perfect  confidence  in  you;  I  would  have  been  asliam- 
ed  of  watching  your  conduct.  I  loved  you  and  to  you  I 
would  have  sacrificed  all, — friends,  fortune,  mother —  " 

Fanny  made  a  movement.  Finally  she  understood  that 
she  was  accused  of  infamy  and  baseness.  Blushes  suffused 
her  face  and  her  cheeks,  and  when  Julius  asked  her  for 
an  answer,  she,  this  time  pui  pose^y  remained  silent  because 
she  felt  wounded  in  her  virtue. 

Another  pause  followed,  and  Julius  began: 

"Speak  to  me  frankly,  Fanny.     Am  T  the  only  person 

who  has  put  the  feet  in  this  apartment? Think  well. 

Have  you  received  any  other? 

"  Ah!  if  that  is  the  question,"  she  replied,  "yes;  an- 
other person  has  been  here  whom  you  know,  one  of  your 
friends,  Mr.  Saint-Gilles.  " 

**  Saint-Gilles!  "  said  Julius,  completely  astonished. 

"  By  his  remarks  he  prepared  me  for  this  altercation.  " 

"  He?  He  must  explain  to  me  his  way  of  acting.  It  i* 
not  of  him  that  I  am  speaking;  you  do  not  speak  to  me 
of  another  man  whose  mysterious  call  has  been  revealed 
to  me. " 

"  Ah!  "  answered  Fanny,  "  what  has  been  reported 
to  you?  " 

•'This  is  what  I  have  heard, "  cried  Julius,  rumpling  a 
paper  which  he  took  from  his  breast:  It  has  been  nar- 
rute4  to  me  that  during  my  absence,  the  day  before 
yesterday,,  in  the  evening,  a  young  man  wrapped  in  a 
cloak  had  entered  your  hoiise,  secretly  introduced  by 
Marion;  that  he  had  left  two  hours  after;  that  this  young 
gentleman  had  called  often,  though  you  had  never  spoken 
to  nie  of  it;  lastly  that  he  had  known  you  before  me,  that 
he  loved  you,  and  that  you  were  to  marry  him.  Is  all 
this  true?  It  is  necessary  that  I  should  tell  you  hi&name  ?" 


""^  ^FyPi*"*'"  '  '  <ff!^^-^-^*^'-^'■^^-"^^'W .■.».'-'»'  V^^T:" "'i'K.n 


tecause  T 
D  aHliam- 
to  you  I 
her—" 
stood  that 
i  suffused 
I  her  for 
it  because 


y  person 
liink  well. 

'yes;    an- 
e  of  your 

ished. 
rcation. " 
ng.     It  i& 
ak  to  me 
revealed 

reported 

impling  a 
been  nar- 

ay  before 
>ped  iu  a 
duced  by 
his  young 
er  spoken 
9  me,  that 
D.  Is  all 
a  name  ?" 


'■  It  is  needless,  "  replied  Fanny  witli  digiiity:  "  a'1u» 
gave  you  these  particulars?  "  . 

"  This  letter,  "  said  Julius,  "  can  you  contradi(;t  it,?  " 

"Who  signed  it?" 

"  Signed  it  is  not,  but  what  cure  1  if  it  tells  the  truth?  " 

"  An  anonymous  letter!  "  said  she  with  contempt;  and 
you  triist  it?  A  vily  denunciation  has  in  your  heart  a 
stronger  influence  than  the  thousand  proofs  of  love  which 
I  gave  you?  You  have  for  me  so  nmch  esteem  that  the 
first  c(Mner  can  slander  and  calumniate  me  without  being 
forced  to  answer  for  his  saying?  Ah!  sir,  what  future  are 
you  preparing  for  both  of  us?  " 

"  Instead  of  accusing,  defend  yourself  If  the  author 
of  this  letter  has  stated  a  falsehood,  I  will  discover  him, 
and  I  swear  by  heaven  T  will  punish  him.  But  if,  instead 
he  has  opened  my  eyes  in  regard  to  you  and  to  a  perfidy 
of  which  I  would  have  been  the  victim,  then  he  is  a  friend 
and  it  is  my  duty  to  thank  him.  Hear  what  he  writes, 
and  afterward  tell  me  which  name  he  deserves.  " 

Opening  the  paper,  with  a  chocking  voice  he  read: 

"Sir: — A  person  who  takes  an  interest  in  you, but  who 
"  wishes  not  to  expose  himself  to  the  hatred  of  any  one, 
"  thinks  it  his  duty  to  take  the  veil  of  the  anonymous  to 
"enligtheu  you  about  a  woman   who  is  on   the  [»oint  of 
**  receiving  your  name.     I   do   not   know  whether   you 
"  were  the  first  iu  her  affection,  Vmt  I  do  know  that  you  are 
"  not  the  first  that  ought  to  have  led  her  to  the  altar.     A 
young  man  of  her  own  place,  united  to  her  by  a  fi  iendship 
of  long  standing,  was  deeply  in   love   wiih  her  and  he 
"  ought  to  marry  her.     This  union  cannot  be  compared 
''with  theoi'eyou  offer  her.  .She  had  to  renounce  him,  but 
"in  doing  so  she  has  not  ceasfd   to    see   him.     At   the 
'' beginning  of  your  acquaintance,  he   presented   himself 
"  at  her  house.     Afterward  he  caileu  again;  once  you  met 


r>4 


"  jli,ini  before  the  door,  and  now  that  he  is  obliged  to 
"  depart,  she  has  received  his  farewell.  Your  absence 
"  from  Paris  favored  this  last  meeting.  Yesterday  evening, 
"Mr.  Ernest  Gairal,  with  many  precautions,  entered  her 
"  house,  and  after  two  hours  he  left.  " 

"  Forever,"  exclaimed  Fanny,  rising,  "  forever!" 

"  You  then  confess  that  he  has  come?  " 
. ,    "  Yes,  please  now  listen  to  me.  " 
,  "  No,  nothing!  nothing!"  replied  Julius,  raging. 

"  Listen.  One  condemns  a  person,  then,  without 
allowing  her  to  answer?  I  am  innocent.  I  was  wrong  iu 
keeping  it  a  secret  because  of  your  jealousy,  which  I 
feared.  This  young  man  had  been  choosen  for  my 
husband  by  my  father.  For  him  I  did  not  experience 
either  hatred  or  love.  1  left  my  birthplace  without  even 
telling  him.  He  came  here  once  to  remind  me  of  the 
intentions  of  our  respective  families,  and  I  did  not  give 
him  any  hope,  although  I  did  not  then  know  you.  He 
loved  me,  it  is  true;  tliat  he  returned  to  visit  me  is  also 
true;  and  the  day  before  yesterday  he  again  returned.  I 
did  not  conceal  from  him  my  love  for  you,  or  your  gen- 
erous conduct,  nor  the  destiny  which  awaits  me.  He  left 
me  resiigned,  and,  as  T  told  j'ou,  forever.  For  me,  dear, 
this  visit  had  no  importance;  it  came  unexpectedly,  and 
if  I  have  not  spoken  to  you  before,  it  is  only  because  it 
passed  away  from  my  mind. " 

This  defence,  so  simple,  had  destroyed,  little  by  little, 
almost  all  the  suspicions  of  Julius.  In  proportion  as  she 
spoke,  the  confusion  and  agitation  of  his  heart  faded 
away  to  give  place  to  the  shame  of  having  shown  himself 
so  cruel.  Moved  by  the  sincere  tone  of  these  explanations, 
he  was  already  prepared  to  fall  at  the  feet  of  that  woman 
who  had  once  more  become  his  idol,  when  his  eyes  rested 
on  the  end  of  the  letter,  which  he  had  not  yet  read.  He 
wished  for  a  final  trial.  . 


•T^--r,'J!fi?49i:Mi<!'^'v4^i'\.J>!i-mit4.»^^ 


66 


obliged  to 
ir  absence 
ly  evening, 
utered  her 

er! " 


mg. 

I,  without 
,s  wrong  ill 
',  which  I 
n  for  my 
experieuco 
hout  even 
nie  of  the 
I  not  give 

you.  lie 
nie  is  also- 
turned.  I 
your  gen- 
e.     He  Isft 

me,  dear, 
tedly,  and 
because  it 

I  by  little, 
tion  as  she 

eart  faded 
wu  himself 
planations, 
lat  woman 
eyes  rested 
read.     He 


"  Forgive  nie,  Fanny.  I  ask  you  a  thousand  pardoi*»- 
if  I  have  wronged  you  or  suspected  you  unjustly.  My 
excessive  love  made  me  unjust.  Be  not  provoked  at  iny 
anger.  The  secrets  hidden  by  you  may  serve  as  an  excuse 
for  this  moment  of  rage.     Do  you  forgive  me?" 

She  placed  one  of  her  hands  on  her  heart,  and  offering 
the  oi^^er         ch  he  covered  with  kisses,  said: 

"  '  Jui  what  pain  you  ht  «>  <,  .eu  me!  I  should 
never  have  thought  I  could  suffer  so  much  withovkt  dying.'' 
"Now,  "he  added;  "as  a  guarantee  of  this  reconciliation, 
give  me  the  token  which  till  now  you  have  refused — the 
ring,  the  only  souvenir  of  your  mother.  The  more  dear 
it  is  to  your  heart  the  more  acceptable  to  me  will  the 
sacrifice  be. " 

Fanny  answered,  smiling:  "Have  you  forgotten  what 
I  have  already  told  you?  Why  this  so  earnest  desire?' 
And  what  high  value  could  it  have  to  you?  " 

"  Does  it  not  contain  the  hair  of  my  Fanny — hair  taken 
from  her  head  when  a  child?  Do  not  refuse  it  to  me,  I 
entreat  you.  1  know  where  you  keep  it.  It  is  iii  a  little 
casket  at  the  bottom  of  the  first  drawer  of  this  secretaire. 
Please  give  me  the  key.  " 

His  looks  were  always  sweet  and  aflFectionate,  but  his 
voice  trembled  and  had  a  strange  tone  of  rage.  Fanny 
perceived  it. 

"  Oh!  "  she  said,  "  you  are  asking  for  your  pardon.  " 
She  hid  the  key  in  her  bosom  and  withdrew  a  few  stejjs. 
"I  do  wish  it,  "  cried  Julius,  giving  free  course  to  the 
anger  he  had  restrained  with  so  much  difliculty.  "I  do 
wish  this  key,  I  need  it,  even  if  I  must  wring  it  from  you. " 
"  Always  suspicions. " 
"  Always  some  mystery!  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  shall   disclose   you  everything.     If  tiU 
now  I  have  refused  to  you  to  open  my  secretaire,   i'l  wja 


._■  S^,lf)^  <yr.«ttii  .'■'^i-Ai"'^''^-'- 


5r» 


> 


.  t»nly  becauao  in  it  you  would  find  some  aecoutiU,  somp 
doctrments  which  wouM  have  revealed  to  youthut  inateu(i 
of  living  upon  »u  income  bequeiited  fo  me,  as  I  always 
told  you,  I  lived  by  my  labor.  T  did  not  confess  the  truth 
lb  you, 'because  I  was  too  proud  to  accept  your  gifts.  Have 
I  committed  u  crime?  and  those  who  liave  written  to  you 
'  will  they  yet  maiutaia  that  I  uni  a  woman  moved  by 
interest?" 

"Then  you  could  deceive  me  for  ho  long  a  time,  and 
you  could  repeat  to  me  this  falsehood  so  many  times 
without  my  dectecting  it,  so  great  was  the  sincerity  which 
shone  in  your  face,  so  innocent  was  your  mouth,  as  it  is 
at  this  very  moment,  in  which  you  are  again  deceiving 
me.  "     So  saying,  he  wrong  tiie  key  from  her   hands. 

Amazed  by  such  violence,  Fanny  fell  senseless  into  the 
arm-chair.  Julius  opened  the  secretaire^  then  the  drawer 
and  the  casket — but  the  ring  was  not  there. 

"  Ah! "  he  exclaimed, "  I  was  quite  sure  of  it.  " 

At  these  words,  Fanny  recovered  her  consciousness, 
fan  to  the  secretaire  and  also  began  to  searcli. 

"  My  ring!  my  ring! " 

"  Disappeared!" 

"Stolen!" 

"  yes,  stolen,  "  repeated  Julius,  and  violently  seizing 
tlio  girl  by  the  arm,  he  thrust  the  letter  before  her  eyes 
aud  finished  reading  it  aloud: 

"  'J,'he  proof,  sir,  that  all  the  relations  between  that 
*•*•  woman  and  her  first  love  are  not  ended,  the  proof  that 
"tliey  loved  each  other  and  that  Gaital's  departure  had 
••for  its  purpose  only  to  facilitate  an  advantageous  marr- 
'*iage,  is  in  the  fact  that  before  they  parted,  she  wished 
»«-him  to  accept  a  family  ring  which  had  belonged  to  her 
**_  mother,  which  she  jealously  kept,  and  in  which  was 
'**  enclosed  l>er  hair.  " 


»'''»4«tjy'!y'a;3ilJg^H.';jii;ft,.-'!g.,g-?^^^^^ 


Hits,  somft 
mt  instead 
1  I  alvvayH 
I  the  truth 
ifts.  Have 
ten  to  you 
iiDved    by 

ime,  and 
iny  times 
•ity  whicJi 
th,  as  it  is 
deceiving 
hands. 
IS  into  the 
he  drawer 


ciousness, 


"  Well  purauod  rulius,  "  Will  you  deny  it  nJW?  Tliis 
rinjryou  hud  refused  me;  the  key,  too,  yon  were  r.-fusinj; 
not  long  ago.  Knavery  on  knavery!  Falsehood  on  falst- 
hood!     Treachery  on  treachery! 

"  Marion,  "  cried  Funny. 
"  Ah,  you  well  know  lliat  she  i.i  not    at   home.      I   al<.n« 
will  un.swer  you.     I  curse  you  and  hate  the  day  in  which 
I  was  acquainted  with  you.     Farewell!  farewell!     Say   to 
your  lover  that  he  can  return. " 

In  departing,  he  ca.^t  a  last  look  at  Fanny.  She  was 
Iving  on  the  floor  iuiujovahle,  pale  in  a  state  near  to  death 
He  made  a  few  steps  to  help  lier,  huthis  feelin«'s  of  anger 
and  contempt  returning,  ho  cidled  an  old  woman,  her 
neighbor,  and  after  pointing  out  to  her  th(f  fainted  Fanny: 

"Take  care  of  that  woman!"  he  said,  and,  throwing 
her  a  purse  filled  with  gohl,  disnppeared. 


*'^-^.'  ^t  — ■ 


^!k'.^^)^^ 


ly  seizing 
her  eyes 

ween  that 
[>roof  that 
xture  had 
sous  marr- 
tie  wished 
;ed  to  her 
rhich  was 


,^«««iM..»L'v^v"4(*S-iiA^V*fw  ■"  ■  -'■"■'^-:'-«  *  -■-  ■-■•—-- 


.:E 


I  r 


•% 


,.-■■■  f   ^l-'S 


I  •  t.  .» 


j 


» 


THE  AlTTOdllAPH.  ' 

r    -  ,  .        ■     I  ; 

At  the  Jtiomont  iii  which  Romeo  receives  from  the 
servant,  Balthazar,  the  news  of  Juliet's  death,  he  pronoun- 
ces these  simple  words:  "  Indeed!  Now,  enemies  stuf'!,  1 
challenge  you!"  and  afterwards  buys  the  poison.  This 
deep  grief,  so  parcimonious  of  complaint,  impresses  more 
than  any  exciting  paraphrase.  In  fact,  our  nature  usually 
takes  interest  iu  the  doingri  of  our  follows,  wlxatevor  they 
aim  nt,  and  sometimes  even  when  their  sentiments  and 
feelings  are  not  in  harmony  with  ours.  This  interest  lasts 
while  hope  supports  it  and  uncertainty  delays  the  result, 
but  from  the  moment  in  which  his  destiny  is  accomplish- 
ed, it  is  necessary  that  he  in  whom  we  were  interested 
spare  us  his  joy  or  grief.  A  settled  matter  excites  our 
attention  no  longer.  We,  too,  will  spare  our  readers  the 
description  of  Julius  Valabert's  mental  sufferings. 

After  the  dreadful  scene  we  have  narrated,  we  will  pass 
over  an  interval  of  eighteen  months,  and  we  shall  find  him 
one  year  married,  and  at  the  moment  in  which  the  wife 
opening  the  door  of  his  office,  with  a  sweet  and  timid 
voice  says  to  him: 

"  Excuse  me  if  T  am  intruding,  but  the  person  you  send 
for  he^^  arrived.  Do  you  wish  to  receive  him  now,  or  do 
you  p'  tfer  he  should  wait. " 

Julius  had  married  his  kind  cousin  Adelc  De  Launay 
Very  few  words  are  necessary  to  explain  the  change  which 
had  ♦aken  place  ia  the  respective  position  of  these  two 
person  3. 

As  A  result  of  the  rupture  with   Fanny,  a  violent  fever 


^fT! 


^^S^^^^s^n^^iJ^fj^SS^/S^^r^^sl^^^^^'t^-i^rii^'ii^Sii-  \  ■ 


f.-^ 


a  from  tlie 
lie  pronouti- 
luies  stur'<,  ( 
•isoii.  This 
)rea3e8  more 
tare  usually 
lutevor  Ihey 
imeuts  and 
nterest  lasts 
i  the  result, 
accomplish- 
9  iutereste;! 
excites  our 
readers  the 
ngg. 

we  will  pass 

all  iiud  him 

sh    the  wife 

and    timid 

on  you  send 
now,  or  do 

De  Launay 
mnge  which 
af  these  two 

riolent  fever 


had  endangered  the  life  of  .Julius,  IIo  would  certainly 
have  died  without  the  constant  cure  of  his  mother  and 
Adele.  Friendship  and  love  hiid  restored  him  to  life. 
A  deep  sadness  and  protracted  hinguur  followed  his  de- 
lirium; without  opposition  he  allowed  himself  to  he  car- 
ried to  the  country,  where,  uccording  to  the  doctor's  opi- 
nion, the  pure,  fresh  air  would  restore  his  energy,  and 
where  the  sight  of  new  ol)jects  would  cancel,  little  by  little 
the  remembrance  of  the  and  event.  In  company  with  his 
mother  and  cousin,  he  went  to  the  neighborhood  of  Lyons. 
There  was  a  moment  when  they  thouglit  to  have  the 
company  of  Saint-Oilles,  but  the  presence  of  this  gentle- 
man was  obnoxious  to  Julius,  who  did  not  doubt  that  the 
anonymous  letter  wus  his  work,  although  inwardly  he 
sincerely  thanked  him  for  having  enlightened  him.  All 
that  reminded  him  of  the  infomriis  treachery,  caused 
painful  and  grievous  emotion.  Perhaps  in  his  heart,  he 
had  flattered  himself  with  the  expectation  of  receiving? 
a  letter  from  Fanny,  in  which  she  should  try  to  justify 
herself.  However,  he  hud  not  heard  from  her;  all  those 
who  approached  him  kept  silent,  and  Julius,  blushing 
and  ashamed  of  his  weakness,  dare  not  to  confide  in  any 
one  of  his  friends.  <• 

Thus  he  left  r»ris  hiding  in  himself  the  dumb  grief 
which  gnawed  within,  too  offended  to  think  of  a  recon- 
ciliation and  to  deeply  in  love  to  unbosom  his  gr'ef  to 
others. 

But  every  hour  which  passes  pours  a  drop  of  balm  into 
the  most  painful  wound,  and  every  day  which  dies  takes 
away  one  of  the  thorns  which  make  the  heart  bleed. 
During  the  first  few  months  passed  in  the  country,  Julius 
felt  no  sensible  improvement.  The  days  were  excessively 
hot  and  the  sultry  nights  were  too  oppressive  for  his 
feeble  constitution.    The  flowers,  which  were  in  all  their 


bfiviity.  thoir  perfunios,  tlic  golden  truilrf  of  llu>  <'iirth,  tlur 
liliiiii.s  covered  with  vcrilure,  (lio  thick  foliugc  ui  the 
woods,  thiit  i»oworful  jjcnii  of  life  wiiich  aliunduiitly 
circulated  in  nuturu,  all  these  heatiticrt  of  the  akv  and  tlie 
earth,  oppressed  him  as  a  stitij^iiij;  irony,  as  a  complete 
<ontrast  with  the  desolation  uiil  the  diyncis  of  his  soul, 
in  which  nothing  j^rew  except  a  hitter  aj^ony  which  he 
persisted  in  keepiiig  hid(hMi.  However,  little  hy  little, 
flowers  withered,  uutuuin  appeared  with  its  train  of 
shallows  and  air  filled  with  dew,  with  its  pale  sun  shin- 
ini; through  fogs  as  a  smile  through  tears  .Julius  felt  his 
intense  grief  partially  dispelled.  TIk!  sadness  and  mourn- 
ing of  the  objects  which  sctrrouufJod  him  harmonixed 
with  his  own  sadness  and  invited  him  to  confidences. 

His  solitary  walks  were  replaced  by  others  with  his 
mother  and  Adele  De  Launay,  and  between  the  latter  and 
himself  a  greater  intimacy  began.  The  woman  who  had 
once  foreseen  his  desires,  who  had  Hhared  bin  hopes,  ought 
she  not  naturally  to  be  the  first  to  console  him?  Only 
with  her  he  dared  to  speak  of  Fanny.  In  these  li)ng 
private  conversations,  which  became  of  daily  occurrence, 
in  those  prolonged  communings  by  the  fire  in  the  even- 
ings, she  narrated  l)y  wliat  means  she  had  caused  the 
rapture  of  his  marriage  with  Miss  de  Septeuil;  how 
witlioiit  any  one  knowing  it,  an  act  justified  by  her  int- 
ention, she  had  in  her  hand  the  thread  of  that  intrigue; 
bow  l)y  means  of  suspicions  dexterously  insinuated  she 
had  {>repared  the  Counless  for  the  first  refusal;  how,  at 
the  same  time,  having  learned  that  Miss  Septeuil,  with 
no  love  for  Julius,  only  obeyed  her  mother,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  that  first  moment  of  spite,  she  had  advised  & 
prior  suitor  to  renew  his  courtship.  From  confidence  to 
confidence  she  ended  by  revealing  to  him  a  secret  that 
^fie  had  concealed  from  all  in  order  not  to  add  her  own 


■'i»in »i.i..<i^>i 


^^"^^^^^^^a^^S^W^hj^'  - 


01 


\\v  <>iirth,  tlur 
liiigt*  of  tlic 
I  aliuiniuntly 

sky  iiiid  tlic 
s  u  oomplctf 

of  his  woul, 
y  w'liifli  li(f 
Llo  by  little, 
its  truiii  of 
c>  suti  Hhin- 
ulius  felt  hi- 
I  uiid  niourn- 

hannoui%('(i 
fideiices. 
rs  with  hJH 
hehiltur  and 
um  who  Imd 
hojifrt,  ought 

him?  Only 
1   these    h>ng 

occurrence, 
in  the  even- 

f;aused  the 
?pteuil;  how 

by  her  int- 
uit intrigue; 
linuated  she 
sal;  how,  at 
jpteuil,  with 
,  taking  ad- 
lad  advised  & 
30ufidence  to 
I  secret  that 
,dd  her  own 


griefs  Ic  those  whiidi  JuliuH  nlreudy  suffered.     She  Imd 
not  winhed  to  lake  lor  herself  any  of  the  couHolatiousdue 
to  him.     Mr.  Do  Launay  had  died,  and  that  sad  intelli- 
gence  had  been  received  by  Adele  a  little  before  the  tium 
when  JuliuH  had  thought  he  was   Itetrayed  in    his   love. 
Julius  was  never  tired   of  admiring   such   inexhauslible 
kindness,     always    ready    to  sacrifice    for  others.     This 
treasure  at  this  moment  belonged  to  no    one.     Tlieir   in- 
terviews becoming  longer  and  more  frequent,  and  without 
having  lost  any   of  tlieir   intimney  ..id    pleasure,   wire 
sometimes  timid  and  embarassing,  both  for  him  and    for 
her.     Fanny's  name  was  uo  longer  .so  frequently  ipoken, 
iind,  one  evening  Julius  holding  his  coijsin's  1    iids  au'' 
fixing  on  her  glances  which  troubled  her,   asked    her     '' 
she  would  finish  the  work  begun,  and  reconcile  him  t   a  • 
pletely  tolife,  granting  tlie  happiness  he  had  nr   "r known. 
"  We  have  both  suffered, "  said  he.     "  Marri^id  I  >  a  man 
who  was  not  able  to  appreciate  you,  you  had  patience  and 
resignation:  I,  on  the  contrary,  experienced  violent  and 
strong  passions.     To  day,  both    free, — you  from  an  im- 
posed chain,  I  from  my  error. — we  feel  the  need  of  a  quiet 
and  sincere  affection.     Be  mine,  if  not  from  ' ove  at  least 
from  pity,  and  I  will  be  grateful  to  you  for  it.  " 

Without  answer  uu  her  part   two   months  later  Adele 
had  married  her  cousin. 

Theyear  following  their  marriage  was  spent  in  the 
country.  Mrs.  Valabert's  death  strengthened  these  ties. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  winte-  ;.*■  jy  returned  to  Paris. 
Julius  resumed  his  occupation,  for  a  long  time  int3rrupt- 
ed,  and  searched  for  relief  from  those  sorrows  of  which 
the  stings  had  not  yet  disap]>i!ared,  in  work  rather  than 
in  the  pleasures  of  luxury  and  of  the  world.  SaiutGilles, 
during  this  long  absence  of  Julius,  had  resumed  his  old 
habits.     He  rarely  called  on  him,  and  obedient  to  Allele's 


■=,^..iiv..-'--*^--sr^ 


02 

')'  .  ■     • 

prayers,  had"  always  avoideil  spoalcihg  of.  tlie  doleful  past. 

1  To  the  work  which  had  usually  kept  Valahert  busy,  had 
been  added  others,  viz:  the  putting  iu  order  of  family 
papers,  the  examination  of  the  titles  of  succession,  the 
copying  of  letters  and  other  papers.  He  had,  therefore, 
given  orders  to  search  for  an  honest  and  reliable  mau  to 
whom  could  be  entrusted  a  little  work,  and  as  we  have 
said  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  his  wife  had  an- 
nounced to  him  the  arrival  of  that  man.  ,  -  • 
:  To  the  question,  "  Do  you  wish  to  receive  him?  "  Va- 
lahert had  answered  with  an  affirmative  nod. 

"  Dear, "  added  his  wife, "  would  you  permit  me  to 
remain  present?  " 

"  Without  doubt;  but  what  inspire  you  with  this  desire? 
It. is  only  a  question  of  figures  and  documents,  and  in 
nil  probability  the  conversation  will  be  very  wearisome.  " 

"  I  spoke  for  a  moment  to  the  person  introduced  to  you, 
and,  if  I  do  not  mistake,  he  is  an  original  lull  of  many 
pleasant  fancies.  "  .  ,  , ,  >  ' 

"  Wery  well;  judge  him  for  yourself.  Let  him  come  in.  " 

An  old  man  presented  himself,  and  his  entrance 
justified  the  words  of  Mrs.  Valahert.  Arrived  on  the 
threshold  of  the  room,  he  saluted  them  in  an  awkward 
way  and  with  an  exaggerated  politeness.  With  both  hands 
he  removed  an  old  hat,  the  edges  of  which  were  broken, 
and  by  a  hasty  movement  of  his  head  in  bending  it  to  the 
knees,  he  had  caused  to  descend  over  his  forehead  the 
torn  edge  of  a  diriy  silken  skull-cap.  As  if  this  ridi- 
culeous  salutation  v  ore  net  enough,  he  repeated  it  three 
times  at  intervals,  each  time  advancing  two  steps,  without 
perceiving  that  Mrs.  Valabert  and  her  husband  were  mak- 
ing useless  efforts  to  restrain  their  laughter.  As  soon  as 
the  poor  man  had  ended  his  genuflexions,  he  raised  him- 
self up,    casting    around    timid  and    humble  glances. 


oleful  past! 
:t  busy,  had 
•  of  family 
lession,  the 
,  therefore, 
ble  mail  to 
,s  we  havo 
fe  had    aii- 


?  "    Vu- 


11  m 


•mit  nie  to 

this  desire? 
its,  and  ill 
earisome.  " 
iced  to  you, 
11  of  many 

X  come  in. " 
i  entrance 
,'ed  on  the 
II  awkward 
both  hands 
re  broken, 
iig  it  to  the 
rehead  the 
f  this  ridi- 
ted  it  three 
ps,  without 
were  mak- 
A.S  soon  as 
'aised  him- 
ie  glances. 


Suddenly  lii.s  face  assumed  an  e.-^pn^ssiou  of  astonishment, 
and  he  stpod  before  Valabert  witl.i  open  mouth  and  dis- 
tended eyes.  Adele  watched  this  inexplicable  pmitcmime, 
wlhni  her  husband,  his  thoughts  returning  to  by-gone 
tin.ies,  exclaimed: 
'  "Ternisien!" 

"  Mr.  Valabert!  "    answered  the    ex- professor.     "How! 
you  have  had  the  kindness  to  remember  my  face?     Have 
yet  not  entirely  forgotten  him  who  taught  you  the  prin- 
c'iples  of  an   art  which  is    now  spurned,  and   of  which 
perhaps  1  am  the  last  representative?     The  times  were 
very  different  when  I  used  to  come  to  give  you  lessons  in 
St.  Honore  street,  where   your   father   lived.     It  is  now 
eighteen  years  since  I  saw  you  last,  and  I  remember  you 
always  because  you  were  kind  a)id  affectionate   to   your 
professor.     I  beg  pardon,  madam,  for  thus  speaking   in 
your  presence,  instead  of  w^aiting  the  permission   of  your 
husband,  but  thinking  of  that  time,  I  seem  to   become 
younger.     Look  here,  madam,  you  must  not  pay  attention 
to  my  dress.     This  morning,  in  order  to  come  to  you,   I 
have  b^rushed  and  darned  these  rags  as  best  as  I  could, 
but  they,  I  know  very  well,  are  old  and  in  bad  shape.  On 
entering  I  felt  ashamed,  and  if  you  had  not  been  present, 
I  am  almost  sure  your  servants  woijld  have  thrown  me  out 
like  a  beggar.     Then  I  become  confused  and  made   very 
humble  salutations  that  I  might  be  forgiven  my  presence 
and  intrusion  into  these  rich,  splendid  apartments.   Once 
I,  too,  knew  how  to  present  myself  properly,  madam,  and 
I  have  punished  many  young  ladies,  rich   and  bsautiful 
like  yourself.  " 

Adele  smiled  kindly,  which  finally  put  Ternisien   at 

his  easy. 

"  Truly,"  replied  Julius,  "  I  am  happy  and  glad  to  meet 

you  again.  ••       -•?      . '■  \  •     •-.  '•• 


_*>''-«MVa^^  ■^?**>*"--^-  t-i.- 


m 


'•  And  T,  too,"  ansvyrered  Ternisien.  "  Well  I  can  ma 
you  are  not  changed;  always  good  and  without  pride.  As 
you  take  away  all  my  embarrassment,  I  shall  ask  per- 
mission  to  sit  near  the  lire  while  you  explain  how  I  may 
serve  you.  It  is  long  since  I  have  seen  a  fire  in  iny  room 
excepting  the  blaze  of  the  candle,  and  that  only  when,  on 
account  of  economy,  I  do  not  go  to  bed  at  twilight.  " 

So  saying  Ternisien  took  a  chair  and  seating  himselt' 
without  ceremony,  totally  forgetful  of  manners,  extended 
his  feet  on  the  fender,  while,  with  his  two  elbowa  resting 
on  his  knees,  he  stretched  out  his  meagre  aud  wrinkled 
hands  toward  the  fire. 

Julius  Valabert,  who  found  his  professor  as  he  had  left 
him,  simple  and  full  of  kindness,  was  gazing  at  him  with 
true  pleasure. 

"Poor  Ternisien!"  he  said  to  him.  "I  see  that  you 
have  not  been  happy,  but  as  you  remember  me,  why  have 
you  not  called  on  me?  In  every  case,  you  would  have 
beeu  kindly  received. " 

"  Yes,  perhaps  I  was  wrong;  but  you,  used  to  riches, 
know  one  side  of  almsgiving.  To  give  when  one  wishes 
it  and  can  afford  it,  is  very  easy,  but  to  ask  is  mor<' 
difficult.  " 

"  After  all,  I  thank  chance  that  has  at  last  united  us 
again.  Here  is  some  work  for  a  few  weeks,  and  I  hope 
you  will  not  refuse  that  I  shall  fix  the  price  myself.  " 

"  We  will  fix  it  together.  The  little  talent  which  I  have 
is  completely  at  your  disposal.  " 

"  You,  perhaps,  live  near  here,  as  I  had  ordered  that 
before  looking  elsewhere  they  should  search  in  our  ward.  " 

"  Yes,  Hive  inalittlerooin  atNo.  4Furstembergstreet." 

Ternisien  did  not  perceive  the  profound  impression 
his  answer  produced  on  Julius  and  his  wife.  A  pause  of 
a  few  minutes  followed,  taking  advantage  of  which  Vala- 


f: 


"•!¥*?W*!^**W'W*' 


.  »-'-rf»^*r^tis*i*i&Jv-'*ii!;*4&ii 


■  ^ttsi'tfe.^iA-^^.^^fSif^, 


11  I  can  me 
t  pride.  As 
ill  ask  per- 
how  I  may 
n  jny  room 
ly  when,  on 
ght.  " 

ing  himseit' 
PS,  extended 
owa  resting 
jd  wrinkled 

he  had  left 
at  him  with 

!e  that  yo»i 
e,  why  have 
ivould   have 

1  to  riches, 
one  wishes 
sk  is  more 

united   us 
Eind  I  hope 
lyself.  " 
'hich  I  have 

rdered  that 
our  ward." 

berg  street." 
impression 

A  pause  of 

yhich  Vula- 


6;-) 

"bert  and  Adele,  in  whoui  these  words  liad  awakened 
the  same  remembrances,  exchange  between  themselves 
furtive  glances. 

"  Let  us  see,  Mr.  Julius,  liow  I  can  serve  you.  " 
Valabert  placed  before  the  eyes  of  Ternisien  a  file  of 
papers  which  were  to  be  copied.  Having  agreed  upon 
the  price,  Ternisien  was  ready  to  depart,  but  Julius  de- 
tained  him.  He  feared  to  question  him,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  wished  that  he  would  speak.  These  two  words 
"  Furstemberg  street, "  resounded  in  his  ears.  If  his  wife 
had  been  absent,  he  would  have  directly  questioned  bis 
old  professor,  who  lodging  in"  the  same  house  where  he 
had  ceased  to  go,  wovild  perhaps  been  able  to  explain  what 
to  him  bad  remained  a  mystery.  The  presence  of  Adele, 
who  se'^med  very  little  disposed  to  leave,  obliged  him  to 
take  a  round-a])out  turn  of  words. 

**  What  have  you  followed  during  the  last  few  years?" 
"  A  trade  which  did  not  suit  me,  "  answered  Ternisien. 
"  I  had  lost  my  professorship  at  the  University,  my  pupils 
had  left  me,  although  I  was  still  capable  of  teaching. 
Certainly  my  hand  was  heavier,  but  the  principles,  you 
know  well,  were  good,  and  experience  supplies  the  lack 
of  the  happy  liveliness  of  youth.  However,  all  this  was 
of  no  use;  I  was  obliged  to  resign  and  become  a  public 
writer.  For  some  years  I  worked  dissatisfiedly  with  my 
vocation.  Often  I  had  the  intention  of  giving  it  up.  A 
circumstance  which,  in  spite  of  myself,  poisoned  my 
conscience:  a  letter  that  I  had  the  weekness  to  copy  for  a 
miserable  recompense,  decided  me.  " 

"  A  letter?  "  asked  Julius  with  indifference. 

"  Yes,  an  anonymous  letter  which  contained  very  heavy 

accusations.     First  of  all,  you  must  know   that  I   always 

nnnrisbod  a  profound  contempt  for  all  denunciatio.'s  oi 

that  kind  which  one  has  not  the  courage  to  sign,  and  it 


66 

seemed  to  me  that  trutli  ought  not  to  have  any  fear  of 
expressing  itself  openly.  Is  not  this  your  opinion  also, 
Mr.  Julius?  " 

"  Yes,  "  answeredlie,  who,  entirely  absorhed  in  Teru- 
isien's  narration,  no  longer  observed  his  wife,  and 
continued: 

"  How  could  that  letter  have  made  such  an  impression 
on  your  mind  as  to  put  in  execution  such  a  resolve?,' 

"  Because  that  letter  might  compromise  very  much 
and  perhaps  even  kill  an  innocent  person  as  well,  as  it 
denounced  a  great  perfidy." 

"  Why,  then,  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Valabert,  who  from  the 
face  of  her  husband  had  guessed  what  kind  of  feeling* 
he  was  endeavoring  to  conceal,  "why  did  you  not  accept 
the  second  supposition,  which  was  as  probable  as  the 
first  one?" 

Ternisien  raised  his  eyes  to  the  sky  and  heaved  a  deep 
sigh 

"  You  are  right,  madam,  then  I  could,  but  to  day " 

"  To-day?"  repeated  Julius. 

"  I  cannot  any  more.  My  fear  was  a  presentiment. 
Alas!  it  was  soon  realized  in  the  most  painful  and  cruel 
manner." 

"  Of  whom  did  that  letter  speak?  " 

"  Of  a  young  lady.  " 

"  And  to  whom  it  was  addressed?"  • 

"  I  was  never  able  to  learn.  The  boy  who  brouglit  the 
letter  to  be  copied  had  orders  to  have  the  address  written 
by  another  hand,  nnd  was  unwilling  to  tell  me  whether 
he  liad  received  the^e  orders  from  a  gentleman  or  a  lady. 
Such  a  great  mystery  troubled  me.  This  was  not  the  first 
time  that  I  had  felt  soruples  about  letters  of  that  sort,  but 
they  had  never  made  such  an  impression  upon  me,  and  I 
reproached  myself  continually  with  an   action  so  simple 


.  1 1  I  J I  M'»;»  I  njj^nij.iij^y 


feur   of 
on    also, 

11   Tern- 
fe,     and 

pression 
ve?/ 
y  niucli 

11,  as    it 

rom  the 

feelirg-i 

t  accept 

us    the 

I  a  deep 


itiment. 
d   cruel 


ight  the 
written 
ivhether 
'  a  lady, 
the  first 
iurt,  but 
e,  and  I 
simple 


(J7 

and  natural  belonging  to  my  vocation,  as  if  I  had  com- 
mitted ii  crime.  At  lliut  time  they  were  making  objec- 
tions to  niy  remaining  any  longer  in  the  court  of  the  » 
Holy  Chapel.  I  left  the  shop  aiid  rental,  at  No.  4  Furs- 
temberg  street,  a  little  room  vacated  by  an  old  woman. 
The  first  two  nights  passed  in  this,  n)y  new  lodging,  were  ■ 
calm  and  silent,  but  in  the  midst  ofthetliird  one  I  was 
awakened  by  sighs  and  smothered  moans;,  and  from  time 
to  time  by  distressful  cries,  the  effects  of  pain.  The  fol- 
lowing day  it  was  said  to  me  that  tlie  little  apartment 
near  the  room  I  occupied  was  inhabited  by  n  young  lady 
at  the  point  of  death.  ' 

"  A  few  days  had  passed  when  one  day,  returning  koime  ' 
at  about  three  o'clock,  J  was  surprised  to  see  the  door  of 
the  same  apartment  wide  open.  I  looked  into  the  first 
room, — nobody  was  there, — no  one  in  the  second, — every- 
where the  same  dreadful  silence.  I  entered  the  last  room, 
and  there,  lying  insensible  on  her  bed,  I  saw  a  young 
woman  whose  features,  although  altered  by  protracted 
illness,  showeil  that  she  must  have  been  }»eautiful  wheu 
she  was  happy. 

"  I  followed  the  first  impulse  of  pity.  I  replaced  on 
the  pillow  the  head  which  hang  off  the  bed.  I  caused 
her  to  inhale  from  a  smelling  bottle  whicJi  I  found  on  the 
mantel  and  tried  to  restore  her  to  cotisciousness.  When 
she  opened  her  eyes,  usli  med  to  bo  j.lone  in  a  room  with 
a  young  wonmn,  I  apclogized  ami  hurriedly  retired.  The 
porter,  whom  1  questioned,  told  me  that  on  the  same  day 
her  servant  hud  left  her.  Without  in«|uiring  what  were 
bar  means,  I  lan  for  and  brought  with  me  a  nurse  to 
watch  over  her.  Happily,  there  was  some  gold  in  her 
house.  Mi<s  Fanny  Dusmenil  was  her  name;  I  had  for- 
gotten to  mention  it  before.  " 

At  these  words   Julius   rose.     Ternisien,  interrupting 


G8 

"'tis  narrative,  sawliiih,  Jiftle;  subdued,  Aii'l  his  face  wet 
with  tears.  Julius  turned  toward  his  wrilfe,  and  seeing  her 
trembling  with  a' profound  grief,  piciuxW  i«  her  face^ 
going  near   to  her,  took  her  hand  saying: 

"Adele,  my  tears,  which  were  flowing With«rAVt  ii'y  own'' 
will,  are  no  offense  to  you.  i'lease  retire  to  your  apart- 
ments, I  entreat  you  and  forgive  nie.  " 

She  lowered  her  head  and  went  away,  saying  in   a   low' 
voice,  but  with  fin  energetic  lone  of  despair: 
"  Well,  I  know  that  you  yet  love  her.  " 
Ternisien  had  risen  completely  dumfounded  and  wlien, 
after  the  scene  which  had  taken  place,  he   found    himself 
alone  with  Julius,  he  not  longei-  knew  whether  he  (.ught 
to  remain  silent  or  to  continue.     Valaberl,  now  free  from 
vrestraint,  came  to  him  and  inquired; 

"  [s  she  dead?     Is  it  true?  " 
>  "Yes." 

"And  her  child?" 
(■  '  "  Dead  abo,.l>efore  the  mother.   But  how  do  you  know?" 
4  ^'I  know;  what  matters  the  rest  to  you?     And   tell   me, 
was  she  calumniated?"  ■ 

"  Yes. " 

"  Who  told  you?  " 

"  Herself,  and  then  I   have  other  irrefutable  proof.  " 
"What  is  it?"-      .    -     • 

"Listen.  Often,.in  day  time,  I  used  to  inquire  about 
her  health.  Her  agony  lasted  long  and  I  had  time  to  win 
her  confidence.  J  used  to  pass  days  and  nights  at  her 
bedside,  and  cared  for  her  as  if  I  had  been  her  father. 
She  narrated  to  m©  her  story.  She  told  ine  how,  on  the 
day  preceding  her.. marriage,  her  lover  had  come  like  a 
raging  maniac;  how,  crediting  an  anonymous  letter,  he 
had  accused  her.  .  Fancy  my  surprise  and  consternation 
when  handing  me  that  letter,  I  recognized  the  one  I  had 


JJg'MMJSH^l^^t&iy^ 


rnm^-" 


1  face   wefr 

seeing  lief 

her   ruce> 

L  11' y  own' 
0ur  apart- 
ill   a   low 


ui'l  wlien, 

(]    liiniself 

he  ought 

free  from 


511  know?" 
I   toll   me, 


iroof. " 

lire  about 
line  to  Avin 
tits  at  lier 
3r  father, 
w,  on  the 
me  like  a 
letter,  he 
sternatiou 
one  I   had 


copied       She    swore   that   notwithstun«Hng   aTpeurauces" 
which  seemed  to  condemn  her.  she  was  innocent;  and   T, 
who  had  a  wrong  to  repair,  hastened  to  ask  the   name  ci 
him  who  had  been  deceived  hy  such  infamous   denuncia- 
tion, and  who  woul-.l  probably  have  time  to   aeknow!cMlge 
and  repair  his  fault.     She  obstinately  refused   to   tell   it. 
« I   wish  '  she  said,  '  that  ibis  fearful  misfortune   might 
have  been  delayed  a  few  u.onlbs,  that  my  child  could  havM. 
l>een  borne  olive,  and  then  T   would   have    forced    myself 
to  beg  in  his  behalf  the  pity  of  the  father;  but  now  I   am 
alone  and  near  to  death,  of  what  use  it  will  be  to   impor- 
tune  him?     Although  for  me,  who  loved   him   so   much, 
his  forgetfulness  may  be  pninful,  1  prefer  let  hi.n   forget, 
rather  than  perhaps  to  awaken  in  him  a  useless  remorse 
by  letting  him  know   how   I  am   dying.'     Her  strenght 
visibly  left  her.     One  evening  the  nurse  and  I  were  at 
her  bedside  awaiting  the  fatal  moment.     For  more    than 
an  hour  she  had  not  spoken.     I  have  always  retained  the 
minutest  details  of  that  last  evening,  and  a  common  and 
childish  fact,  to  which  death  has  imparted  a  lugubrious 
and  dreadful  character,  will  never   be   blotted   from    my 
memory.     Near  the  head  of  the  table  a  candle  was  burn- 
ing     I  tried  to  increase  the  light,  but  as  my  eyes  were 
darkened  with  tears  and  my  hand  trembled,  I  extinguished 
the  candle  and  we  were  plunged  into  darkness.     '  It  is 
perhaps,  the  eternal  night, '  she  uttered  with  feeble  voice. 
These  were  the  last  words  she  pronounced.  " 

Julius  had  hidden  his  face  in  his  hands  and  tears  flowed 
through  his  fingers.  Suddenly,  as  if  he  would  have  kept 
a  doubt  for  his  only  excuse,  lie  approached  X^rnisien  and 

said  to  him:  .      ,  ,       i,  * 

'•  You  told  me  that  they  had  calumniated,  her,  but  you 

did  not  give  me  the  proof,  which  you  say:  is  .irrefutable. " 
"  She  had  already  justified  herself  of  haviiigreceived  a 


70 

young  man.  W liul  condenuied  her  was  a  ring  which  she 
was  accused  of  having  given  as  a  love  token  to  her  suitor. 
Hew  it  had  disappeared  she  was  notahle  to  explain.  Well, 
it  had  heen  stolen  hy  hor  servant,  a  certain  Marion,  bribed 
with  gold  to  steal  this  ring  from  the  secretaire.  The  same 
day  that  for  the  first  time,  I  entered  Fanny's  room, 
Marion,  owerpowored  by  remorse,  had  gone,  after  having 
made  a  confession  of  the  crime  witliout  naming  the  per- 
son who  had  induced  her  to  commit  it.  She  had  placed 
such  a  written  confession  on  the  bed  of  her  mistress  while 
she  was  asleep,  not  having  had  the  courage  to  accuse 
herself  or  to  a«!c  f;irgivcness.  Fanny  refused  to  search 
for  her.  Ileouing  this  letter,  she  had  fainted,  alone, 
without  help,  and  chance  brought  me  there  a'ld  happen 
to  see  that  cqnfes^sion.  " 

"Enough,  enough!"  said  Julius,"  I  received  that 
anonymous  letUp-r.  Fanny  is  dead, — I  murdered  her.  Who 
then,  around  mo,  has  plotted  such  a  barbarous  scheme? 
Did  Fanny  confided  it  to  you?" 

"  She  named  1,10  one.  She  only  spoke  to  me  of  propo- 
sitions made  to  her  hy  a  friend  of  her  lover's  familv.  " 

"Saint-Gillcs!  Ah!  him,  him! — my  mother's  confidant! 
Must  I  believe  that  they  acted  in  concert,  and  that   after 

having  given  her  consent  to  it? Oh!  no,  no!  he  acted 

alone.     Now  I  remember  wliat  he  used  to  tell  me.     Him 
him  alone,  I  accuse.  " 

"If  you  were  cahner,  "  suid  Ternisien,  "I  would  give 
you  the  proof  you  need — the  copy  of  the  letter.  " 

"Have you  it?  "^ 

'•  I  have'  kepi-rt.  The  boy  who  brought  it  to  me  had 
received  the  order  to  destroy  it,  but  as  he  did  not  know 
how  to  read,  I,  instead  of  the  copy,  tore  up  another  piece 
of  paper,  without  his  noticing  his  substitution.  This  copy 
must  be  at  home." 


ig  which  she 

0  her  suitor. 
:plain.  Well, 
rion,  bribed 

The  same 
iny's  room, 
after  having 
iig  the  per- 
had  placed 
istress  while 
e  to  accuse 
d  to  search 
ited,  alone, 
i!id  happen 

ceived  that 
}d  her.  Wbo 
us  scheme? 

e  of   propo- 
family.  " 
s  confidaiit! 

1  that  after 
no!  he  acted 

me.     Him 

would  give 


to  me  had 
d  not  know 
lother  piece 

This  copy 


n 

"To-morrow  you  will  bring  it  to  me;  no,  even  to  night 
— now — I  need  it.     Let  us  go!  " 

Noticing  the  convulsive  joy  which  spread  over  the 
features  of  Julius,  Ternisien  repented  oflmving  confided 

such  a  thing  to  him. 

"It  is  difficult  to  find  it  immediately,  it  is  necessary 
that  I  should  search  for  it.  Perhaps  it  exist  no  longer. 
However,  by  no  means  will  I  give  it  to  you  unless  you 
first  tell  me  for  what  purpose  you  intend  to  use  it.  " 

"I  would  have  a  proof,  nothing  else.  "  replied  Julius, 
"  a  proof  which  would  give  to  me  th^  right  to  spuru  the 
author  of  that  letter.  " 

"  All  right;  I  shall  leave  you  now,  and  to  morrow  will 
bring  it  to  you.     T  hope  to  find  it.  " 

Evening  had  arrived.  Ternisien  took  leave  of  Julius 
and  returned  to  his  room  very  much  confused.  He  had 
no  trouble  in  finding  the  letter.  He  thought  it  right  to 
tahe  precautions  against  the  youth's  anger,  and  his  peace- 
ful  character  made  him  believe  contempt  to  be  a  sufficient 
vengeance.  Valabert,  who  could  not  believe  in  such 
simplicity,  exclaimed: 

"  He  will  not  give  me  this  proof,  but  do  I  really  need  it." 

An  hour  afterward,  a  servant  went  out  from  his  palace 
with  three  letters.  Two  of  them  were  addressed  to  friends 
of  Julius,  the  third  to  Saint-Gilles. 


,  ,.=,-.',ii.->>^L3Jfe:-i--"-i.'?>"^'"''''  ■■ 


72 


V[. 


THE  llEVEllSi:  OF  THE  CAUDS. 

Nearly  twenty  minutes  after  Tornisieii  huil  entered  hi* 
room,  lie  heard  u  knock  ut  his  door.  This  noise  inter- 
rupted the  S3arch  lie  was  already  making  among  a  bundle 
of  papers  to  fiiifl  the  autograph  he  had  promised  to  Julius 
the  following  day.  As  he  did  not  expect  visitors,  and  rs 
iu  his  nre-oceupation  he  had  not  hcar>l  the  frontdoor  shut, 
so  at  ...st  he  thought  the  noise  was  eaused  hy  the  wind 
swinging  an  open  window  in  the  stairway,  and,  therefore, 
without  further  notice,  he  pursued  his  work.  After  a 
moment,  he  thouglit  he  heard  a  friction  which  ascended 
and  descended  along  the  door  as  if  produced  hy  a  liand 
wiiich  searched  in  the  darkness  for  the  string  of  a  bell,  a 
thing  completely  unknown  among  Ternisien's  furniture. 

The  knocking  was  repeated  a  little  stronger  and  with 
greater  energy. 

"  Who  is  there  and  what  do  you  want?  "asked  Ternisien. 
He  received  no  answer,  but  the  knocking  was  rejieated. 

"  Come  again  to-morrow,  "  said  the  good  man,  alarmed 
at  such  persistency,  and  fearing  to  be  tlie  victim  of  some 
snare.  "  Come  again  to-morrow;  I  am  already  in  bed  and 
have  no  light. " 

Unhappily,  the  candle,  the  light  of  which  was  seen 
through  the  cracks  of  .his  door,  belied  his  words. 

"  Open  the  door,  please, "  asked  a  sweet  and  trembling 
voice;  "you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  person  speak- 
ing to  you. "     Ternisien  decided  to  open  the  door. 


-•rKi■J,^J^3;4«^5^;^^ii(^J*;JiKJ>^3Hy^^^ 


itered  h\fi 
so  iuter- 
;  a  bundle 

t(»  Julius 
s,  au'i  PS 
loor  shut, 
the  wind 
herefore, 
After  u 
ascended 
'  a  Imnd 

a  bell,  a 
iniiture. 
md  with 

(.•rnisien. 

[•eated. 

alarmed 

of  some 

bed  and 

•as   seen 

embling 
I  speak- 


A  veiled  woman  quickly  entered  the  room.  Slio  seemed 
ft  victim  of  the  greatest  agitation,  and  when  she  raised 
lier  veil  to  breathe  at  ease,  the  old  professor  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  on  obscrvinp  the  change  which  a 
few  hours  had  produced  in  her  features. 
"  Close  the  door"  said  she. 
Before  obeying,  Ternisien  cast  agl mce  at  the  staircase. 

"  Alone?  you  are  alone,  madam  1  " 

"  Nobody  knows  nor  ought  to  know  of  my  visit  to  your 
house.  Swear  to  me,  sir.  that  if  yo\i  should  bo  questioned, 
you  will  not  reveal  that  [  c\mo  her'.  " 

"  Madam,"  replied  Ternisien,  still  more  amazed  by  the 
visit  and  by  the  mystery  that  this  lady  put  in  it,  "madam, 
it  is  not  customary  for  me  to  pledge  myself  so  easily  to 
such  oaths,  which  sometimes  be  -ome  painful  and  difficult 
to  keep.  When  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  explain  the 
causea  which  brought  you  here,  I  will  try  to  make  ymi 
the  promise  you  ask.  " 

"  I  understand  your  prudence,  but  have  no  fenrs,  the 
secret  I  ask  is  more  necessary  to  me  than  to  you.  lie 
yourself  the  judge. " 

She  cast  her  eyes  around  the  room,  and,  aller  a  few 
minutes,  added:  \'  . 

"Here  we  must  talk  low,  must  we  not?  (Jthers  can 
hear  what  is  said. " 

"  Yes,  madam,  it  was  in  this  same  room  that,  without 
caring  for  it,  I  heard  the  smothered  moans  of  the  unhappy 
Fanny.  You  were  not  in  the  parlor  when  I  finished  the 
narration  of  that  very  sad  story?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Adele  with  an  abrupt  and 
agitated  tone  of  voice,  "  I  know  that  Ma/  Fanny  is  dead." 

"After  my   departure   M.    Valabert  had   the  time  to 

tell  you?"  ; 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since.  " 


T4 

"  Yet  he  is  ignorant  that  you  have  come  to  see  me?  " 

"Heia." 

"  But,  madam,  if  this  evening  he  should  discover 
your  absence?  " 

"This  evening? — O,  this  evening  he  will  not  think  of 
what  may  I  hove  done.  Now  he  does  not  think  of  me 
any  more. " 

In  spite  of  his  want  of  penetration  and  his  absolute 
ignorance  of  paasion,  Tornisien  began  to  guess  the  secret 
grief  which  thus  changed  the  features  of  Mrs.  Valabert, 
and  gave  to  her  eyes  that  insane  expression  and  to  her 
voice  that  strange  inflection.  He  recollected  the  tears 
Valabert  had  not  been  able  to  hide  from  her,  and  with 
what  words  he  hud  entreated  her  to  retire.  Jealousy  was 
gnawing  her  heart,  but  he  could  not  yet  guess  the  motive 
which  had  brought  her  to  his  lodgings. 

She  motioned  him  to  sit  down  beside  her. 

"  Have  you  kept  the  copy  of  that  anonymous  letter?  " 

Ternisien  stared  at  her  with  astonishement,  not  know- 
ing whether  she  was  questioning,  or  aflirming  a  fact  well 
known  to  her. 

"  You  have  kept  it "  she  continued;  to  morrow  you  are 
going  to  give  it  to  my  husband.  Do  not  try  to  deny  it; 
from  the  next  room  I  heard  all,  I  know  all.  Even  when 
your  voice  or  his  had  not  reached  me,  my  gaze  would 
have  pierced  through  the  thickness  of  the  walls  and  guess- 
ed your  words  from  the  simple  movement  of  your  lips. 
You  must  give  me  the  copy  of  that  letter.  " 

"  Madam,  1  promised  to  give  it  to  your  husband. " 

"  To  him  or  to  me,  what  matters  it  to  you?" 

**  If  you  are  here  with  his  consent. " 

"  To-morrow  you  will  write  him  that  you  have  lost  that 
paper,  and  he  will  believe  it.  Have  you  not  already  made 
its  existence  doubtful  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  fear  I  have  told  the  truth.  " 


Bee  me?  " 

d    discover 

»t   think  of 
ink   of   me 

is  absolute 
i  tlie  secret 
1.  Valttbert, 
ind  to  her 
1  the  tears 
and  with 
Bulousy  was 
the  motive 


3  letter?" 
not  know- 
a  fact  well 


3w  you  are 

to  deny  it; 

Even  when 

»aze  would. 

3  and  guess- 

your   lips. 

and." 

ve  lost  that 

'eady  made 

75 

"No;  at  the  beginning  yfu  quite  assented  that  it  was 
yet  in  your  hands,  and  you  have  bejijun  the  search.  I 
will  have  that  copy.  CJive  it  to  me,  sir;  sell  it  to  me,  ask 
for  it  whatever  price  you  will;  you  are  poor  and  I  can 
enrich  you.  " 

Speaking  so  rapidly  as  not  to  leave  him  time  to  answer 
she  had  opened  her  satchel. 

Then  she  added:  "  Here  are  four  bills  of  o  thousand 
francs  each;  these  are  not  enough? — I  know  it — this  is 
what  I  had  in  the  casket.  I  will  give  you  more,  much 
more;  I  will  treble  the  sum — twenty  thousands  francs — 
and  1  have  jewels — here,  take." 

Her  color,  before  pale,  had  returned,  her  hands  with  a 
movement  so  rapid  as  hardly  to  be  followed  by  the  eyes, 
emptied  the  satchel.  A  pearl  necklace,  precious  stones, 
diamonds,  rings,  her  own  ear-rings,  in  a  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  were  thrown  upon  the  knees  of  Ternisien. 

The  poor  man,  astounded,  contemidated  her.  On  the 
flaps  of  his  ragged  coat  was  u  sum  tenfold  larger  than  he 
had  before  possessed  in  all  his  lifj-time,  and  this  unex- 
pected fortune  was  given  him  without  reckoning;  yes  it 
was  his  own.  It  was  enough  that  he  should  extend  his 
arm  and  shut  his  hands  to  become  the  master  of  it.  But 
such  were  not  the  thoughts  in  Ternisien's  mind.  Between 
the  wealth  he  had  never  known  and  the  misery  which 
was  shortening  his  life,  in  that  honest  heart  was  no  place 
for  speculation,  however  excusable  it  may  be.  With 
trembling  voice  and  tears  in  hia  eyes,  he  addressed 
Mrs.  Valabert. 

"  Are  you  then  very  unhappy?" 

"Yes.  very  unhappy,"  sLo  answered,  "  and  it  is  in  your 
power  that  1  may  be  so  no  longer;  you  can  give  me  peace 
and  insure  my  happiness.     Do  you  accept  it  then?  " 

"  The  recital  of  that  story  has  awakened  in  your  husband 


76 

the  remembrance  of  u  former  love.  Is  it  not  true?  I  ought 
to  have  perceived  this  and  broken  it  off  when  he  entreat- 
ed  you  to  go  out  of  the  room;  I  ought  not  to  have  ro-opeued 
a  wound  yet  unhealed.  You  must  forgive  me,  madam, 
the  evil  that  I  have  unwittingly  done  you.  I  had  pres3nt 
in  my  memory  the  death  of  that  poor  woman,  who  was 
an  angel  of  virtue — I  could  swear  it, — and  who  has  been 
so  baaely  calumniated.  If  you  had  know  her  as  I  did,  if 
you  bad  heard  her  protest  her  innocence,  you  wuuld  not 
have  required  this  irrefutable  proof  to  have  been  cun- 
vinced  of  it.  But  for^ 'Ve  me,  madam,  if  I  again  afflict 
you  in  speaking  of  her,  and  forget  what  I  learned  but  a 
few  minutes  ago,  namely,  that  love  is  jealous  of  a  rival 
who  does  not  even  exist  any  more.  You  are  afraid  that 
your  husband  would  become  attached  to  that  souvenir, 
and  that  at  your  side  he  would  remember  her  whom  he 
loved.  How  the  possession  of  that  letter  could  make  you 
happy  is  what  I  am  not  able  to  understand.  What  in- 
terest causes  you  to  wish  so  ardently  for  it  as  to  be  ready 
to  purchase  it  with  you  own  fortune?  " 

Whether  Adele  had  not  a  satisf^ictory  answer  ready  or 
whether  the  emotion  by  which  she  was  agitated  was  too 
strong,  she  remained  silent. 

Ternisien  continued;  , 

"When  I  saw  that  Mr.  Julius  wished  for  that  letter,  I 
immediately  told  him  that  perhaps  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  me  to  find  it,  because  I  was  afraid  that,  recog- 
nizing the  handwriting,  he  would  have  gone  to  ask  satis- 
faction of  him  who  had  written  it.  He  has  re-assured 
me.  What  ought  I  to  8Upt>ose,  now  that  I  see  you  troubled 
by  such  a  fear?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  I  fear  that  he  may  expose  his  life, "  an- 
swered Adele,  as  i^the  last  words  of  Ternisien  had 
given  her  the  excuse  she  had  been  searching  for.    "Your 


-'J»»>tiiiisi^edMW!«'ie^iSMsM^t^e%s^^ 


'  I  ought 
)  eritreat- 
e-opeued 
,  madain, 
il  pres3nt 
who  was 
lus  heen 
I  did,  if 
uuld  not 
eeii  cou- 
in  aftlict 
ed  but  a 
i  a  rival 
raid  that 
30uvenir, 
vhom  he 
iiake  you 
iVhat  ill- 
be  ready 

ready  or 
was  too 


letter,  I 
le  i  in  pos- 
it, recog- 
ask  satis- 
■e-assured 

troubled 

lie, "  an- 
isien  had 
r.    "Your 


77 

friendship  for  him  has  surmised  the  misfortune  which 
my  lovo  tries  to  prevent.  That  is  why  I  come  here  at  this 
hitehour,  and  why  I  beg  you  not  to  speak  to  anyone 
of  my  visit.  I  know,— do  not  ask  how  I  know,— the 
persou  who  wroto  that  letter ;  my  husband,  too,  will  recog- 
nize  the  handwriting;  they  will  fight, be  sure  of  it;  perhaps 
he  will  be  killed.— Twice  I  will  lose  him  ou  account  of 
that  unhappy  woman.  Give  me  that  letiei— let  me 
destroy  that  proof— and  when  he  has  only  suspicions; 
when  the  guiltv  one  is  able  to  deny,  and,  therefore,  to 
refuse  to  fight,  then  I  wiU  be  happy  or  at  least  at  ease 
about  my  husband's  life.     This  letter,  I  ask  for  it  upon 

my  knees.  "  .    ■ 

"  Rise,  madam,  "  said  Ternisien.  "  I  am  too  sorry  for 
what  has  happened  not  to  give  you  back  yourtranciuillity. 
The  oath  y<m  ask  from  me,  I  give  you  willingly.  I  will 
hide  your  visit  from  Mr.  Valabert,  but  take  this  money 
again,  take  back  these  jewels;  I  will  not  accept  them.  In 
returning  you  this  letter,  I  intend  only  to  repair  a  wrong 
done  and  not  to  give  you  back  a  proof. " 

In  so  speaking,  Ternisien  returned  to  Mrs.  Valabert  the 

bills  and  jewel3°she  had  handed   him.     He   went   to   the 

table  ou  which  some  papers  were  scattered,  searched   a 

little  and  afterward  returned  towards  Adele.     Seeing  the 

vellow  paper  he  had  in  his  hands,  she  sprang  and  seized 

it  with  a  convulsive  movement.     While  she  was  reading, 

a  strange  change  was  taking  place  in  her,  a  change  which 

only  th"e  wish  to  prevent  a  challenge  by  destroying  that 

proof  could  not  justify  to  eyes  more  expert  than   those  of 

Ternisien.     In  her   joy  was  something  of  frenzy.     One 

would  have  said  that  of  the  two  opposite  natures  existing 

in  her,  the  most  violent— for  a  long  timebriddled  by  an 

.    iron  will— had  finally  burst  forth  and  removed  all  obstacles 

—overflowed  by  her  violent  passions.     Her  features,   the 


xtttsSm-f^sHMni^^ 


! 


n 

mirror  of  a  new  soul,  seemed  to  have  assumed  another 
character.  She  was  no  more  the  timid,  submitting  re- 
signed, suppliant  woman,  but  a  lioness  which  roared 
while  devouring  her  prey.  As  if  her  hands  were  not 
sufficient,  she  tore  the  sheet  with  her  teeth,  and  then, 
gathering  up  the  pieces,  burned  them  in  the  flame  of  the 
candle,  one  by  one.  In  proportion  as  they  were  consumed, 
her  eyes  shone  and  followed  the  writhings  of  the  flame  as 
if  they  were  the  sufferings  of  an  agonized  victim.  As  soon 
as  the  fire  had  devoured  all,  she  dispersed  the  blackened 
ashes  which  flew  around  her  with  a  puff. 

"  Nothing  more"  she  cried.  "Behold  every  trace  has 
disappeared!  This  letter  never  existed.     I  am  saved!" 

In  her  delirious  joy,  she  twisted  her  hands,  laughing 
and  crying  at  same  time.  She  threw  herself  upon  the 
neck  of  Teraisieu  before  ho  was  able  to  express  his 
wonder  at  such  unaccountable  exuberance. 

"To  you  I  owe  my  happiness,  "she  replied;  "I  will 
never  forget  it.  You  refuse  my  gifts  but  come  to  see  me, 
sir;  as  I  have  told  you,  my  fortune  is  yours.  I  have  your 
own  word  that  you  will  be  discreet:  is  it  not  so?  Good-bye. 
Do  not  accompany  me;  I  will  find  iuy  way.  The  important 
thing  is  that  I  do  not  stay  hero  any  longer.  " 

She  opened  the  door,  rusheil  to  tlie  staircase,  and  despite 
the  darkness,  so  nimble  were  her  steps  that  Ternisien 
scarcely  heard  the  nuiso.  The  street  door  was  shut, 
Ternisitn  placed  himself  at  the  window  and  by  tlie  un- 
certain light  of  a  street  lamp  saw  her  turning  u  coni»r 
through  the  snow. 

For  some  lime  the  old  i.rofessor  remained  thunder- 
struck at  what  had  happened.  A  thousand  different  ideas 
whirled  in  his  pt.or  head.  The  thought  of  evil  was  tlie 
last  one  which  could  enter  his  niiad,  but,  upon  thinking 
of  the  offeid  ho  had  refused,  it  seemed  to  him  that   if  he 


.  i^tSSwiKsiftsiSsiSi^fca^^fev***  ■■ 


79 


another 
-ing  re- 
roared 
ere  not 
1  then, 
e  of  the 
isuraed, 
lame  as 
A^s  soon 
ickened 

ice  has 
ed!" 
.ughing 
)on  the 

BS3    his 

"I  will 
see  me,, 
ve  your 
od-bye. 
portant 

despite 
rnisien 
3  shut,. 
lie  un- 
corn';r 

under- 
it  ideas 
'as  tlie 
inking 
if  he 


had  accepted  them  it  would  have  been  a  heavy  burden  on 
his  conscience,  and  that  he  would  have  been  obliged  to 
return  the  gifts.  He  wrote  to  Mr.  Valabert  that  all  his 
researches  had  been  useless;  that  for  a  long  time  he  had 
kept  that  paper,  but  that  it  existed  no  longer.  Then  he 
went  to  bed,  but  was  unable  to  sleep  or  to  banish  the 
suspicions  which  incessantly  presented  themselves  to 
his  mind. 

Mrs.  V'alabeit  had  returned  home  without  having  been 
even  inquired  for  by  her  husband  in  her  absence.  During 
the  night,  no  noise  troubled  the  quietness  of  the  house. 
At  dawn  the  following  morning,  Julius  aroused  from  the 
table  where  he  had  spent  the  whoJe  night  in  writing.  He 
re-read  and  sealed  some  letters.  A  very  long  one  was 
addressed  to  his  wife;  another  also  of  several  pages  con- 
tained  his  lar.t  dispositions,  and  was  to  be  given  to  the 
notary  who  had  his  fortune. 

His  wife's  room  was  separated  i'rom  his  own  bv  a 
smaller  one,  the  door  of  which  opened  between  the  two 
divisions  of  the  library.  He  directed  his  steps  to  that  si.le, 
and  listened  for  a  few  minutes.  All  around  was  still 
"  She  is  asleep,  "  he  said;  "  I  can  go  out,  and  if  Heaven  is 
just  I  shall  return  here  without  troubling  her  rest.  In 
two  hours  all  will  be  ended.  He  or  I.  Let  me  go.  "  He 
wrapped  himself  in  a  cloak,  took  the  box  which  contained 
lUS  pistols,  and  softy  turned  the  key  ii;  :"'3  lock. 

At  the  same  time,  the  door  opercd  rom  vhe  outside 
and  Julius  found  himself  fate  <o  faji'  v,  ith  li^s  wife  who 
was  pule,  troubled  and  with  a  couut'iiuince  which  testified 
that  she,  too,  had  been  awake  all  i  '^ht. 

Surprise  made  Julius  draw  back.  Adele  entered,  shut 
the  cabinet  door  violently  and,  without  asking  or  giving 
explanations,  took  away  the  cloak  and  snatched  the  pistol 
box  from  her  husband's  hands. 

"  You  were  going  out  to  fight,"  she  said. 


Julius  scarcely  recovered  from  his  emotitm,  replied: 

"  I  must  be  second  for  a  friend.  Tliese  piptols  are  for 
him.     Adele,  do  not  be  afraid,  but  let  me  go,  " 

"Oh!  you  cannot  deceive  me,"  she  said;  "you  are 
going  to  fight."  _ 

"Adele!" 

"  No  useless  words!  no  false  oaths!     You  go  to  fight.  " 

"To  fight?     Why?  and  against  whom?" 

Against  whom?  Against  him  who  wrote  that  anony- 
mous letter  and  whom  you  think  you  know.  Why?  Be- 
cause you  wish  to  avenge  the  death  of  whom  you  always 
thought.  I  know  it,  I  tell  you.  Does  the  heart  need  to 
be  taught  that  is  forsaken?  Does  the  jeolousy  need  to  be 
enlightened?  Did  I  not  see  you  yesterday,  while  that  man 
was  speaking,  forget  that  I  was  there, — I,  a  poor,  forsaken 
woman,—  and  only  recollect  it  to  pray  me  not  to  trouble 
your  grief  with  my  presence?  And  because  I  retired  you 
thought  I  had  not  heard  your  sobs,  or  the  questions  you 
asked,  or  the  resolution  you  made?  Julius,  dare  you 
repeat  to  me  that  you  are  not  going  to  fight?" 

He  turned  his  eyes  toward  her,  and  making  an  effort, 
he  replied  with  a  grave  and  slow  voice:  Adele,  it  has 
always  been  my  sad  fate  to  put  to  a  trial  your  inex- 
au;' I  bio  kindness,  which  made  an  angel  of  you.  Once 
you  alone  rendered  justice  to  that  woman  whom  you  now 
detest  on  account  of  the  title  of  my  wife.  Later,  when  I 
was  very  near  dying,  you  again  consoled  me;  for  almost 
two  years  you  sorrounded  me  with  attentions,  and  I  swear 
to  you,  without  that  unforeseen  revelation  which  threw 
me  suddenly  into  the  past,  no  moaning  or  sorrow,  or 
remembrance  would  have  found  place  in  my  heart.  Try 
to  find  in  that  virtue  which  no  other  woman  equally  pos- 
sesses, the  necessary  strenght  to  bear  this  last  blow.  Yes, 
I  will  no  longer  deceive  you.     I  go  to  fight.     It  is  not  a 


replied: 
ols  are  for 

;  "you   are 


to  fight.  " 


lat  anony- 
Why?  Be- 
you  always 
rt  need   to 

need  to  be 
le  that  man 
31,  forsaken 

to  trouble 
retired  you 
estions  you 
,   dare  you 

;  an  effort, 
lele,  it  has 
your  inex.^ 
^ou.  Once 
m  you  now 
}r,  when  I 
for  almost 
and  I  swear 
lich  threw 
sorrow,  or 
leart.  Try 
qually  pos- 
blow.  Yes, 
[t  is  not  a 


81 

question  of  love,  as  no  vengeance  can  give  life  again  to 

her  who  no  longer  exists,  but  the  infamous  person   who 

calumniated  the  woman  you  yourself  once  defended,  must 

receive  the  price  of  his  falsehood.    To-day,  to-morrow, 

twenty  years  from  now,  so  long  as  my  hand  can  hold  a 

sword  or  direct  a  ball  through  the  heart  of  an  adversary, 

I  will  demand  satisfaction  for  that  vile  conduct;  I  will, 

avenge  Fanny's  death.     I  wished  to  avoid  meeting  you, 

Adele;I   feared  your  tears,  your   pains,  your  reproaches, 

but  my  last  thoughts  were  for  you.     There,  on  the  mantel 

piece,  is  a  letter   I  wrote  you,  in  which  I  bade  you  the 

last  farewell.     Receive  it  now,  since  a  fatal  chance   has 

brought  you  across  my  path,  and  do  not  try  to  detain  me. 

My  resolution  is  taken.     It  is  a  reparation  that  I  owe  lier; 

and  in  risking   my  life,  I  expiate,   in   my   opinion,   my 

credulity    and  the   error  I  ought   to   have  repulsed  far 

from  me. " 

Adele  had  remained  before  him  dumb,  with  a  fixed 
gaze  and  clasped  hands,  but  when  she  saw  that  he  again 
prepared  to  leave,  she  seized  him  violently  by  the  arm, 
and  exclaimed  with  an  accent  of  subdued  rage: 

"  Then  I  must  again  resign  myself  to  be  patient?  This 
everlasting  duty  1  For  others,  the  passion,  the  heart  which 
burns  and  confides  itself,—  for  me  the  coldness  of  marble. 
No,  no!  this  must  not  be  sol  He  asks  me  for  another 
virtue,  while  I— 0  God!  I  beg  thee  to  restrain  the  passion 
which  was  ready  to  overflow.  Let  not  the  secret  of  my 
heart  come  to  my  lips.  Seal  my  mouth,  and  restrain  my 
voice  before  it  shall  narrate  what  I  know.  Let  this 
blindness  which  betrays  me  depart  from  me,  and  give  me 
back  my  former  strong  will.  " 

"Adele,  what  do  you   mean   to  say?"  asked   Julius, 
"  Whence  this  delirium?  " 

-Must  I  even  explain  to  you  the  cause  of  my  grief? 


'82 

Do  you  thing  to  deceive  me?  Was  that  woman,  then  so 
beautiful  that  the  simple  remembrance  of  her  is  stronger 
thfvn  your  love  for  me?  In  what  way  she  loved,  to  love 
you  more  than  I  do?  You  do  not  know,  Julius,  how,  I 
love  you.  You  have  only  known  in  me  a  timid,  reserved 
woman,  whom  a  simple  glance  was  sufficient  to  make 
happy,  but  I  was  waiting  only  for  a  single  impassioneil 
word,  for  a  worm  caress,  to  attach  myself  to  you,  to  love 
you — not  as  a  wife,  but  as  a  lover.  Oh !  tell  me  that  you 
were  ignorant  of  these  transports,  of  these  secret  desires, 
of  that  love  which  dare  not  to  burst  forth,  but  which  to- 
day made  me  fall  at  your  feet,  confounded,  suppliant,  mad? 
Is  it  not  so?  You  will  forget  that  woman  for  me,  who 
entreats;  who,  crying,  kisses  your  hands,  your  knees. 
Yes,  she  was  beautiful;  but  I  ? — I,  too,  arn  beautiful;  you 
have  told  me  so  too  often  to  ignore  it,  and  happiness  will 
make  me  yet  Hi  ore  beautiful;  and  you  will  look  at  me 
with  pride.  Yes,  she  was  innocent;  and,  am  I  guilty  in 
loving  you?  As  she  died,I  will  die  too,  if  you  forsake 
me.    Do  you  then  desire  to  kill  us  both?" 

Julius  was  moved,  but  not  persuaded.  He  felt  how 
legitimate  was  Adele's  sorrow,  and  how  strong,  to  cause 
her  to  speak  in  such  an  infatuated  way,  so  destitute  of 
modesty.  Her  words  affected  his  ears,  not  his  heart, — 
since  the  preceding  day  his  heart  had  been  wholly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  remembrance  of  Fanny.  Freeing  himself 
from  his  wife,  he  made  a  few  steps,  as  if  to  go  out. 

"  So  you  will  go,  you  will  leave  me?  all  that  I  have  said 
has  been  useless  to  detain  you?  " 

"I  mt/si  go. " 

"  You  will  not  return  here  ttnless  avenged  or  dead! " 

-rightly!" 

"And  during  yoir.  absence  I,  who  know  all,  will  cry, 
tea    my  hair,  strike  my  forehead  against  the  wall— and 


MM 


msm 


lan,  then  so 
r  is  stronger 
ved,  to  love 
lius,  how,  I 
lid,  reserved 
ent  to  make 
impassioned 
you,  to  love 
ne  that  you 
^cret  desires, 
it  which  to- 
)pliant,mad? 
for  me,  who 

your  knees, 
^autiful;  you 
ippiness  will 

look  at  me 
1 1  guilty  in 

you  forsake 

He  felt  how 
»ng,  to  cause 
destitute  of 
his  heart, — 
n  wholly  ab- 
eing  himself 
0  out. 
t  I  have  said 


or  dead!" 

all,  will  cry, 
le  wall— and 


'83 

all  that  caunot  detain  you?  On  the  field,  facing  your 
adversary,  nothing  can  affect  you?  nothing  will  prevent 
your  heart  beating  or  your  hand  tr(^mbling^  This  is 
what  is  in  store  for  me:  You,  if  you,  come,  back,  will  re- 
turn to  cry  for  her  beside  me,  or  bebrought  here  a  corpse, 
or  dying,  and  I  shall  cure  you  and  restore  your  life  to  hear 
you  repeat  tlie  name  of  Founy.  Oh!  see,  Julius,  do  you 
know  that  you  will  drive  me  mad?  that  1  woul  \  prefer  to 
see  yoa  dead  rather  than  alive?  But  you  will  not  depart 
from  hence — you  will  not  fight, — Who  is  your  adversary? 
Who  killed  your  beloved?    Saint-Gilles;  it  is  not  so?  " 

"  Who  else  could  have  done  it?  " 

"  Aiid  if  he  refuses  to  fight?" 

"  He  will  not  refuse;  1  have  his  answer  olreadj'.  " 

"  His  answer  to  an  insulting  letter.  Yet  one  does  not 
risk  his  life  for  an  insult  that  could  be  repaired.  If  he 
refuses  to  fight;  if  he  tells  you  that  he  did  not  write 
that  letter?  " 

I  will  tell  him  that  he  is  a  coward;  I  will  take  him  by 
the  throat  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  I  will  slap 
his  face.  " 

"But  then  perhaps,  he  will  kill  you;  and  yet — he  did 
not  write  that  letter. " 

"  Who  did  then?  " 

•*  Some  one  that  you  cannot  strike — someone  that  does 
not  wish  for  your  death."  '  . 

"  Adele! " 

"  Some  one  who  embraces  your  feet;  a  woman  whom 
jealousy  made  guilty,  and  who  speaks  now  on  account 
of  the  fear  of  losing  you.     It  was  I  Julius.  "  : 

"You?"  •  ,. 

At  such  a  fearful  revelation,  JuliuS,  remained  as  if 
striken  by  a  thunderbolt.  .       '  .     , 

"  Voi{ "  he  repeated  iafter  a  few  minutes.       <  ■.,.., 


mm 


84      .-,  ,, 

'i  Yes,  I,"  she  answered,  trying  lo  seize  his  hands, 
wliich  he  drew  back.  He  was  looking  at  her  with  amaze- 
ment  and  terror.  He  was  taken  with  dizziness  in  meas- 
uring that  profound  falsity  and  the  abysses  of  that  -i^ort, 

a  buruin£    volcano  covered  with   snow.     Finally  he 

exclaimed:  "  What  had  that  poor  thing  done  to  you?  Oh! 
if  you  have  spoken  the  truth,  do  not  approach  me  hence- 
forth.    I  would  feel  only  pity  for  you,  but  you  excite 

my  horror.  " 

"  Julius,  you  ask  what  she  had  done  to  me?  But  I  loved 
you  from  the  first  day  I  saw  you,  and  she  also  loved  you. 
bo  not  ask  mo  how  I  happened   to  be  acquainted   with 
Ernest's  visits.     I  was  jealous,  an      gold  bought  me  aU 
the  secrets  I  wished  to  know.     It  was  I  that  caused   the 
letter  to  be  copied  with  all  the  precautions  Teniisien  nar- 
rated.    Yesterday  I  received  from  him  and   burned   the 
paper  written  by  my  hand.     I  bought  Marion,  and  for  me 
she  stole  the  ring  whose  disappearance  was  to  serve  as  a 
i)roof  against  Fanny.   That  is  what  I  did,  and  it  seems  a 
dream.  I  cannot  believe  it  myself.  My  reason  is  wander- 
ing, my  head  is  feeble  as  my  body.— Why  have  I  spoken? 
Ohl  yes,    I  remember,  because  you  were  going  to  fight 
with  Saint-Gilles;  because  you  were   going   to   risk   your 
life  and  I  desired  to  save  you.  " 

"Have  you  yet  that  ring  which  Marion  gave  you? 
Answer,  answer!    Give  it  to  me. " 

"  I  have  it  no  more.  " 

"  Give  it  to  niel  "  he  repeated  with  a  fearful  voice. 

"  Julius  "  she  replied,  I  have  it  no  more.  Your  looks 
affright  me;  your  voice  makea  me  tremble.  Have  you 
uo  pity  for  me?" 

"  Had  you  pity  for  her?  " 

"  Always  hrrI  " 

'« Do  you  not  remember  that  she  is  dead,  and  died 
murdered  by  you?    Pity  for  you?    Never!  " 


85 


zu  his  handd, 
er  with  ainaze- 
nuess  ill  meas- 
3  of  that  .i^ort, 
IT.  Finally  he 
ne  to  you?  Oh! 
ach  me  hence- 
nit  you  excite 

le?  But  I  loved 
tilso  loved  you. 
quainted   with 
bought  me  al' 
lat  caused   the 
I  Teinisieu  nar- 
id   burned   the 
'ion,  and  for  me 
is  to  serve  as  a 
und  it  seems  a 
ason  is  wander- 
have  I  si)okeu? 
going  to  fight 
;   to   risk   your 

ion   gave   you? 


arful  voice. 

e.     Your  looks 

)le.     Have  you 


lead,    and    died 


*'  I,  too,  have  suffered.     \^'a8  I  not  jealous?    Am  1   not 
yet  80?    llavo  I  not  suffered  when  victim  of  a  love  whidi 
could  cause  me  to  lose  all  modesty,  I  saw  you   going  ont 
to  meet  hor?    Have  I  not  silently  concealed  my  tears? 
Have  I  not  sighed  every  night?     Mute  and  impassible  in 
appearance,  have  I  not  staggered  at  the' noise  of  your 
footsteps,  at  tlie  sound  of  your  voice,  and,  when  your  hand 
touched  mine?     And  during  two  years  what  has  been  my 
lot?    By  diiy  Fanny   occupies  your  thoughts,  and   often 
even  at  night  in  your  dreams  I  have  heard  her  name. 
Did  I  complain?     And  to-day,  because  the  fear  of  losing 
you  has  made  me  speak,  fool  that  I  was,  you  reject  mo 
without  pity.     Your  eyes  have  not  a  single  tear  for  my 
sufferings,  your  heart  has  not  an  excuse  for  my  fault.  She 
could  have  died;  she!  you 'had  loved  her.     What  would 
become  of  me  if  you  will  not  see  me  any  more?     A  word 
only  for  pity;  not  a  word  of  love.     Now  you  cannot  speak 
it;  I  know  it,  and  you  would  make  me  so  happy.     No,  no! 
it  is  not  that  which  I  ask  of  you.    Only  let  fall  a  look 
upon  me  as  formerly,  as  yesterday,  and  I  will  leave  you 
in  peace.     You  will  think  of  her,  you  will  cry  for  her,  and 

1 when  your  eyes  shall  be  dry,  I  will  return  to  you,   I 

will  kneel  and  ask  your  pardon.     Oh!  my  head  burns.  A 
word,  only  a  word,  or  I  shall  die!  " 

She  had  approached  him;  he  pushed  her  back  again. 
"Infamous  one!"  he  exclaimed,  "if  you,  yet  have   it, 

give  me  that  ring. " 

"  What  will  you  do  with  it?  "  she  asked  raising  her  head 
and  regaining  an  energy  inspired  by  despair. 

"  I  would  in  your  presence  cover  it  with;  kisses  and  let 
you  know  once  again,  before  we  part,  how  I  love  her  who 

had  it.  " 

"  To  part?  Oh!  Juliu?,  you  defy  me?  You  believe  me 
feeble  an.l  under  your  feet.    To  separate?    But  I  am  your 


80 

wife  and  will  follow,  you  everywhere.  What  will  you  say 
to  obtain  that  separutiou?  That  foi  jealousy  I  murdered 
your  mistress?  And  the  proof  wheie  is  it?  That  letter 
was  destroyed.  I  will  answer  titat  you  were  lying.  Ali! 
you  are  without  pity  for  no;  you  wiii  punish  nie  for  my 
love  for  you  with  the  remembrance  you  retain  of  the 
other  and  then  forsake  me.  Well,  then!  As  your  wife  J 
claim  my  right  to  remain  with  you;  I  will  never  leave. 
Do  you  understand?  " 

"Madam,  we  shall  not  see  each  other  again.  " 

"  Wo  will  see  each  other  every  day.  Everyday  I  will 
importune  yovi  with  my  presence,  with  my  love,  v/ith  my 
distress  and  my  jealousies. " 

"  Be  silent,  madam,  be  silent! " 

"No,  T  will  not;  neither  to-day  nor  to  morrow.  Ah! 
you  believe  to  have  suffered  by  having  lost  your  darling 
while  another  woman  whose  reason  you  have  destroyed 
only  receives  from  you  the  epithet  of  infamous  and  the 
threat  of  a  separation.  No,  no!  AVe  are  united  to  each 
other,  and  we  will  not  be  parted.  Our  existence  will  be 
a   hell,  but  I  am  used  to  suffering,  and  I  accept  my  lot.  " 

Out  of  her  mind,  almost  mad  she  had  taken  the  arm  of 
her  husband,  whose  rage  had  been  increased  by  such 
ioolish  provocation.  A  fearful  expression  of  contempt 
and  hatred  shone  in  his  eyes.  The  door  of  the  room 
opened  with  violence,  and  at  the  same  time  three  gentle- 
men entered.  Julius  made  a  last  effort,  and  as  he  had  not 
seen  the  presence  of  the  others,  raised  his  hand  against 
his  wife.     She  bent  and  fell,  half  fainting  under  the  blow. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "the  hour  I  appointed  for  our 
m  ting  is  past.  Without  doubt  you  come  to  search  for 
nif.  Mr.  Saint-Gilles,  I  would  not  have  delayed  present- 
ing my  excuses  to  you  and  praying  to  forget  the  letter  I 
had  addressed  you.     You  can  see  the  motive  of  my  delay, 


will  you  si\y 
r  I  murdered 
Thiit  letter 
■  lying.  All! 
1  nie  for  my 
retain  of  the 
your  wife  J 
never   leave. 


ry  day  I  will 
ove,  v/ith  my 


norrow.     Ah! 
youi'    darling 
ive  destroyed 
lous  and  the 
lited  to  each 
tence  will  be 
jept  my  lot;  " 
en  the  arm  of 
Bsed  by  such 
of  contempt 
of   the  room 
three  geutle- 
1  as  he  had  not 
hand   against 
tider  the  blow, 
tinted  for  our 
to  search   for 
layed  present- 
it  the  letter   I 
e  of  my  delay, 


h7 

a  conjugal  scene,  that  I  cannot  hide  like  the  others. 
Madam  was  asking  for  a  separation  which  I  was  refusing 
to  her;  now  I  do  not  object  any  longer,  and  the  testimony 
you  will  make  in  her  favor  will  be  the  punishenient  of  a 
brutality  of  which  I  feel  ashamed,  but  of  which  it  is  too 
late  now  to  repent. " 

He  approached  his  wife,  and  in  a  low  voice  said  to  her: 
"  To  dav  you  will  lodge  your  complaint,  otherwise   be- 
fore the'     gentlemen  I  will  dish'     jr  you  by  telling  what 
I  know. "' 


*  EI'ILO( 

A  month  after  that  scene  •'  alius  and  /  dele  were  separat- 
ed.  Two  month  later  Julius  mourned  his  wife,  and  the 
year  was  not  ended  when  Ternisien  in  tears  accompanied 
a  funeral  retinue  that  went  out  from  the  palace  of  the 
Rue  de  Lille. 


•'"^^Sf^^^ 


**' 


^ 


L 


**"'''^^"^^'T?gril?^-J^'Ti'J^J'^3:-'V^?^ 


')Tvrj'ff4^  ,--'-y^j'-'Ty'  -.,_-^-,.-yvki^--'-'-  y',K'.-=:  -.-.lu?;;^ 


^^     W: 


V'S^'.'-"^' 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


PhotDgraphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


73  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


POKMS     # 


TRANSLATED     FROM 


fr9j)Q\),  Italiai),  apd  Spai^isl?. 


THIRD     EDITION. 


.^ 


01 

I. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  GIRL. 


TO  MY  BELOVKD  MOTHER,  KORTUNATA  SORVILLO, 
WIDOW  NOBILE,  (NEE  NANS6). 


Twelve  springs  had  embellished  her  youth.  Toor  girl! 
she  could  have  lived  longer.  To  her  eyes  the  future  was 
opening  full  of  delight,  and  her  beautiful  smile  was  pure 
as  a  golden  ray  of  the  sun. 

The  life  of  this  beloved  one  was  the  support  of  her  mo- 
ther's soul.  Innocence  supports,  while  virtue  defends.  She 
was  used  to  say,  "  This  angel,  one  day,  will  become  a 
woman,"  and  this  child  was  the  living  incarnation  of  her 

happiness. 

And  thou  hast  lived  twelve  years  embellishing  all  on 
thy  passage,  for  twelve  years  thy  mother  found  her  bliss 
la  the  looks  of  thy  charming  eyes;  for  twelve  years  she 
had  in  her  soul  a  continual  happiness  knowing  that  thou 

wast  living. 

On  the  storm  of  life  this  girl  was  a  calm,  and  in  sorrows 
was  a  ray  of  dawn,  and  thou,  alas!  suddenly  left  us,  leav- 
ing in  our  heart  an  everlasting  sadness. 

Her  soul  was  the  human  embodiment  of  the  virtues,— 
the  virtues,  flowers  of  heaven,  and  perfumes  of  the  elect. 
Afterward  a  child  was  needed  in  the  bands  of  the  angels, 
God*  singled  her  out,  Death  came,  and  she  was  no  more. 

The  mother  thoughtful,  dishevelled,  stayed  there  to 
look  at  the  body,  mute  for  ever.     Alas!  for  a  moment  it 

~~  *God  wanted  one  more  angel  child, 

Amidst  His  shining  band. 
And  80  He  reached,  with  loving  smile, 
And  clasped  our  darling's  hand ! 


1  02 

-^  ■  . 

seemed  that  her  life  had  disappeared  with  that  of  the  poor 
girl  for  whom  the  funeral  bell  was  tolling.  Oh!  I  seem  still 
to  see  this  girl  with  her  rigid,  silent  form,  and  her  pale 
face!  Oh!  I  see  her  cold  and  beautiful,  lying  in  the  bed 
as  she  were  sleeping  in  an  angelic  dream. 

I  see  the  light  around  her  shed  its  reddish  lustre  in 
the  humble  and  sad  room.  I  yet  see  the  friendly  hand 
faithful  to  its  duty,  raise  up  and  place  her  corpse  in  the 
coffin.  0!  when  this  little  body  was  brought  to  the  church- 
•ard,  the  mother  groaned  for  her  lost  happiness.  One 
would  have  said  that  her  heart  wished  to  follow  the  coffin, 
so  many  were  the  sobs  which  poured  from  her  oppressed 
breast.  The  day  was  over,  and  gave  place  to  another,— 
and  yet  the  mother  has  always  in  her  heart  her  daughter, 
and  seems  always  to  see  her  angel  prostrated  by  death. 

Vainly  she  is  invited  to  many  joyful  feasts, — vain  it  is 
to  persuade  her  of  the  necessity  of  forgetting,— vainly  it 
is  said  that  life  has  the  same  law  for  all,  and  that,  by 
death,  hearts  are  united  to  God. 

Vainly  it  is  repeated  to  her  that  the  flowers  live  only  a 
season;  that  the  beautiful  dawn  which  awokes  the  morning 
cannot  continue;  that  the  children's  souls,  up  in  Heaven, 
live  attain,  and  at  our  own  death  they  show  themselves 

to  us. 

The  poor  mother  remains  deaf  to  all  these  words.  In 
vain  every  one  tells  her  that  her  daughter  is  an  angel,— 
that  Death  must  extend  its  law  over  all,— that  life  is  an 
exile  in  this  world, — that  all  must  change.  Alas!  her  heart 
is  broken,— her  faith  is  extinguished.  The  mother  cannot, 
and  will  not  believe  that  she  is  dead;  and  continually 
with  her  tears  asks  for  her  daughter.  She  demands  this 
girl,  who  still  lives  in  her  mind,  with  her  songs,  with  her 
games,  and  with  her  gay  smile.  Sometimes  her  mind 
wanders  for  a  moment,  and  it  seems  that  her  soul  has 


of  the  pool* 
[  seem  still 
1  her  pale 
n  the  bed 

I  lustre  ill 
ndly  haiul 
pse  in  the 
he  church - 
iiess.  One 
c  the  coffin, 
•  oppressed 
another, — 
r  daughter, 
}y  death. 
— vain  it  is 
, — vainly  it 
d   that,   by 

live  only  a 

he  morning 

in  Heaven, 

themselves 


■  93 

risen  to  the  clouds  to  see  if  her  time  had  arrived  to  depart 
f  ir  awav  from  the  noise.-Thus  she  lives  amidst  our 
l.uniun  shadows,  always  faithful  to  her  daughtei,-her 
dearest  love.  Many  weeks  I  have  heard  her  cry,  and 
riiuce  I  have  been  told,  that  she  is  still  weeping. 

Brasseiir. 


words.  In 
an  angel, — 
t  life  is  an 
isl  her  heart 
;her  cannot, 
continually 
nnands  this 
gs,  with  her 
3  her  mind 
3r  soul  has 


^ 


u 

ir. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  OCTOBER. 


TO  MY  BUOTJIER,  (;aV.  (ilOVANNI  SORVILLO. 


J'OKT. 


The  pain  T  suffered  Ims  vanished  like  a  dream,  and 
the  faint  renuunbrance  it  lias  left  I  can  only  compare  to 
those  mists  which  rise  with  the  dawn  and  disperse  with 
the  dew. 


MUSE. 


What  ailed  thee,  my  poet,  and  what  was  the  pain  that 
parted  thee  from  me?  Alas!  I  yet  felt  its  sad  effects. 
What  is  this  unknown  grief  I  have  so  long  bovailed? 


POET. 


It  was  a  vulgar  pain,  well  known  to  man,  but  when 
our  heart  is  grieved,  we  always  believe,  poor  fools  that  we 
are,  that  nobody  before  us  has  known  sorrow. 


MUSE. 


Only  the  sorrow  of  a  vulgar  mind  can  be  called  vulgar. 
Friend,  reveal  this  sad  misery  of  thy  heart;  believe  me; 
speak  with  confidence.  The  severe  God  of  silence  is  one 
of  the  brethren  of  death;  complaint  brings  consolation, 
and  often  a  single  word  has  spared  remorse. 

POET, 

If  I  were  to  speak  of  my  pain,  truly  I  shall  not  know 
by,  what  name  to  call  it, — if  it  be  love,  folly,  pride,  ex- 
perience, or  if  it  could  be  of  profit  to  anybody — but  as  we 


r.o. 


Iream,  and 
compare  to 
iperse  witli 


I  pain  that 
sad  effects. 
miled? 


but  when 
jols  that  we 


illed  vulgar, 
believe  me; 
ence  is  one 
consolation, 


1  not  know 
,  pride,  ex- 
■ — but  as  we 


m 

are  now  alone,  seated  by  the  fire,  I  will  tell  my  story. 
Take  tliy  lyre  and  let  my  memory  awaken  at  the  sound 
of  thy  notes. 

MUSE. 

Before  relating  thy  sorrows.  Poet,  art  thou  cured? 
Think,  that  to-day  thou  must  speak  without  love  or  hatred; 
recollect  that  I  have  received  the  sweet  name  of  consider, 
and  make  me  not  the  accomplice  of  the  passions  that 
have  ruined  thee. 

POET. 

I  am  so  well  cured  of  my  malady,  that  sometimes  I 
doubt  if  it  ever  existed;  and  where  I  risked  my  existenco, 
instead  of  myself,  I  fancy  I  seethe  fa»e  of  a  stranger. 
Muse,  be  without  fear,  we  may  both  without  danger  con- 
fido  in  the  voice  of  thy  inspiration.  It  is  sweet  to  smile 
at  the  remembrance  of  ills  we  might  have  forgotten. 

MUSE. 

Like  a  watchful  mother  at  the  cradle  of  a  beloved  child, 
I  trembling  turn  to  thy  heart  which  was  closed  to  me. 
Speak,  friend,  my  attentive  lyre  already  follows  the  accents 
of  thy  voice,  and  in  a  ray  of  light,  like  a  beautiful  vision, 
pass  by  the  shades  of  other  days. 

POET. 

Days  of  work,  the  only  days  in  which  I  really  lived. 
Oh,  solitude  thrice  beloved!  God  be  praised,  at  last  I  have 
returned  to  my  old  study!  Poor  room,  walls  so  often  de- 
serted, dusty  chairs,  faithful  lamp!  Oh,  my  palace,  my 
little  world,  and  thou  young  immortal.  Muse,  God  be 
praised,  we  are  again  going  to  sing!  Yes,  I  will  open  my 
soul,  thou  shalt  know  all,  and  I  will  relate  thoe  the  ills 


00  .      ;.■/.:  ■  •; 

that  a  woman  can  do,— for  a  woman  it  was,  my  poor  friend, 
(alas!  perhaps  thou  already  kuowost  it,)a  woman  to  whom 
I  submitted  as  a  serf  submits  to  his  master.  Dotosted 
yoke,  it  was  there  my  lieartlost  its  force  and  its  youth, 
and  yet  near  rny  mistress  I  had  fancied  I  should  find 
happiness.  When  in  the  evening  near  the  brook  we 
walked  togheter  on  the  silvery  sand,  when  the  white 
specter  of  the  poplar  showed  us  the  road  from  afar,  I  can 
yet  see  by  the  ray  of  the  moon,  her  beautiful  frame  lean- 
ing on  my  arm.  Let  us  speak  no  more  of  it.  I  did  not 
foresee  where  fortune  would  lead  me;  doubtless  the  anger 
of  the  Gods  had  needed  a  victim,  for  my  attempt  to  be 
liiii)py  has  been  punished  as  a  crime. 

MUSK. 

The  imago  of  a  sweet  remembrance  has  just  presented 
itself  to  thy  thoughts.  Why  fearest  thou  to  retrace  its 
track?  Young  man  if  fortune  has  been  cruel,  do  like  her, 
smile  on  thy  first  love. 

roKT. 

Mo,  it  is  at  my  misfortune  that  I  have  acquired  the 
right  to  smile.  Muse,  I  said  I  would  without  passion  relate 
my  sorrows,  my  dreams,  my  madness,  and  that  I  would 
tell  thee  the  time,  the  hour,  and  the  occasion.  It  was,  I 
recollect,  a  night  of  autumn,  sad  and  cold,  like  to-night; 
the  murmur  of  the  wind  with  monotonous  noise  nursed 
dark  cares  in  my  troubled  mind.  I  was  at  the  window, 
expecting  my  mistress,  and  listening  in  the  obscurity,  I 
felt  such  a  distress  in  my  heart,  that  I  conceived  the 
suspicion  of  an  infidelity.  The  street  where  I  lodged  was 
dark  and  deserted;  seme  shadows  passed  a  lantern  in 
their  hands.  When  the  wind  whistled  in  the  half  closed 
door  one  heard  in  the  distance  what  seemed  a  human 


iiy  poor  friemi, 
nnau  to  whom 
ter.  Detested 
md  its  youth, 
I  should  find 
the  brook  we 
leu  the  white 
oui  afar,  I  can 
nl  frame  lean- 
it.  I  did  not 
tless  the  anger 
attempt  to  bo 


just    presented 

to  retrace  its 

uel,  do  like  her, 


B  acquired  the 
it  passion  relate 
i  that  I  would 
sion.  It  was,  I 
,  like  to-night; 
s  noise  nursed 
at  the  window, 
he  obscurity,  I 
conceived  the 
ire  I  lodged  was 
1  a  lantern  in 
L  the  half  closed 
9emed  a  human 


sigh.     1  know  not— to   say   the  truth— to  what  hikI  pre- 
BunliiiuMit  lay  restless   spirit  tlioii    ubimdoiiod    itself.     1 
recalled  in  vain  the    remains   of  my  courage,  and  1    I'eit 
a  tremor  when  I  hour  the   eloek    strike.     She  came  ni»t. 
Alone  with    downeast  eyes  T  looked  anxiously  at  the  walls 
and  the  road;  and  I  luive  not  told  tlieo  wliut  a  senseless 
urdor  that  inconstant  wonnui  lighted  in  my  bosmn.     Her 
alone  I  loved  in  the  world,  and  to  live  a  day   witlu)ut  lior 
seemed  to  me  a  destiny  more  dreadful  than  dealli;  still    I 
remember  in  that   fearful  uight  I  make  a  long  effort  to 
break  my  chain.  A  hundred  times  I  calleil  her  perfidious 
and  false.     I  remindel  myself  of  all  the  illssho  had  caus- 
ed me.     Alas!  at  the  recollection  of  her  fatal  beauty  what 
ills,  what  griefs  were  still  unapi)eased?  At  length  the  day 
broke.     Tired  with  vain  expectation,  I  fell  intoa  slumber 
)U  the  rails  of  the  balcony.     I  opened    my  eyes  at   tlie 
rising  dawn,  and  let  my  dazzled  orbs  wander  around  me. 
Suddenly  at  a  turuiug'of  a  narrow  lane  I   heard   on  the 
gravel  stealthy  footsteps.     It  is  she.  She  enters.    Whence 
comest  thou?     Last  night  what  hast  thou  done?  answer, 
what  would'st   thou?     What   brings  thee   at  this   hour? 
Whilst  I  alone  on  this  balcony  watch  and  weep,  in  what 
l)lace,to  whom  did'stthou  smile?     Peffidious,   audacious 
woman,  is  it  possible  thou  come  to   me?     What   askest 
thou?     By  what  horrible  thirst  darest  thou  seek  to   draw 
mo  to  thy  exhausted  arms?     Go,   retire,   spectre    of  my 
beloved — return  to  the  grave  if  thou  art  risen   from   it — 
leave  me  to  forget  forever  the  joy  of  my  youth,  and   when 
I  think  of  thee  to  believe  that  I  have  dreamed. 

MUSE. 

Culm  thyself;  I  conjure  thee.  Thy  words  make  me 
shudder;  thy  wound  is  near  to  re-open.  Alas!  it  is  very 
deep,  and  the  miseries  of  this  world  are  so  long   ere  they 


08 

lire  offucc'd.     Forj^cl,  my  i-liilil,  iiml  I'rotn  tliy  liourt  drivo 
tho  luuiio  of  that  wuimiii  I  will  not  prououuoo. 

I'OKT. 

Rljamc  to  iTioft  who  lirst  tuuglit  mo  I  macho  ry,  iitid 
iiia<l(U!ii(Ml  1110  with  horror  iiiul  rii>:e.  Sliumo  to  thee 
u-oinii!i  of  thcMlurk  oycH,  whoso  fatal  lovo  buried  in  the 
shade  my  spring  airl  my  bright  (hiys.  Tliy  voice,  thy 
.smiles,  tliy  corrupting  gluncog  tau;,'ht  mo  to  curse  even 
the  aiipoarunco  of  happiness:  thy  youth,  thy  rharma  re- 
duced mo  to  despair,  und  if  1  uo  longer  believe  in  tours 
it  is  bocuuse  I  see  thee  weep.  Shame  on  thee!  I  was  us 
simple  us  a  child;  like  a  flower  at  tho  dawn  my  heart 
openei!  to  thy  love — sure  thut  heart  without  defense  could 
easily  be  abused — but  to  leave  it  its  iunoeeneo  was  still 
easier.  Shame  on  thee  I  Thou  wast  the  mother  of  my 
lirst  sorrows,  und  thou  caused'nt  a  fountain  of  tears  to  flow 
from  my  pyes — yetitflow^  and  uothing  will  ever  heal  it, 
but  in  that  bitter  source  I  wid  bathe,  and  I  shall  forget,  I 
hope,  thy  abhorred  remembrance. 

MUSK. 

Poet;  it  i3  enough.  Though  tho  illusions  with  tho  faith- 
less (,ne  lasted  but  a  day,  do  not  curse  that  day  when 
thou  speakest  of  her— if  thou  desirest  to  be  loved,  respect 
thy  love — if  the  effort  is  too  groat  for  human  weakness  to 
pardon  tho  ills  that  come  to  us  from  others,  spare  thyself 
at  least  the  torments  of  hatred,  und,  in  defau.t  of  pardon, 
let  oblivion  coino.  The  dead  sleep  in  peace  in  the  bosom 
of  tho  heart;  and  thus  should  sleep  the  feelings  which  are 
extinguished;  the  relics  of  the  heart  have  also  their  ashes. 
Do  not  let  our  haiuls  touch  these  sacred  renuiins.  Why 
in  this  narration  of  a  vivid  suffering,  wilt  thou  only  see 
a  dream  and  a  deluded  love?     Does  Providence  ac  t  with- 


lic'urt  (Irivo 


J. 


ihory,  iinl 
ino  to  Ihoe 
Liriod  in  tlio 
'  voice,  thy 
)  curse  even 
cluinua  rc- 
svo  ill  tours 
'el  I  was  US 
u  my  heart 
lefeiiso  could 
ICO  was  still 
other  of  my 
r tears  to  flow 
ever  heal  it, 
ihall  for{j;et,  I 


ilh  the  faith- 
t  day  when 
loved, respect 
L  weakness  to 
spare  thyself 
i.t  of  pardon, 
in  the  hosom 
igs  which  are 
.0  their  ashes, 
nains.  Why 
lou  only  see 
ace  ac  t  with- 


m 

out  a  motive?  or,  tliinkest  tliou  that  the  (iud    who  siruek 
thee,  struck  inadvertently?  The  hlow  of  whidi  thou  com- 
phiinest  has,  perhaps,  saved  thee,  child,  hy  that  thy  heart 
wu9  openetl.     Man  is  an  apprentice,   and  sorrow   is    his 
niasttM-,  and  no  t)ne  knows  himself  until    he  has   suilered. 
Hard  is  the  law,  hut  supreme,  old  us  the    world    and    the 
fate,  that  wo  must  receive  tlio  baptism  of  misfortune,  ami 
at  such  sad  price  everything  must  bo  l)Ou^ht.     The  crops 
to  ri[)en  have  need  of  dew.     The  symbol  of  joy  is  a  broken 
plant  wet  with  rain  and  covered  with  llowers.  Did'st  thou 
not  my  that  thou  wast  cured  of  thy  folly?     Art  thou   not 
youny,  fortunate,  well  received  by    all — and   those   light 
I'leusures  which  nuiko  life  desirable — what  would'st  thou 
care  for  them,  if  thou    1\ad'st   not   wept?     When    on  the 
decline  of  day,  seated  on  the  hearth  thou  drinkest   to  li- 
berty, say,  would'st  thou  raise  thy  glass  so  heartily  if  thou 
had'st  not  paid  the  price  of  thy    gayety?     Would'st  thou 
lovo  flowers,  meadows,  the  green    shade,  the    sonnets    of 
Petrarch,  and  the  soiigs  of  the  birds,  Michel  Angelo  and 
the  arts,  Shakespeur  and  nature,  if   thou  di<lst   not  find 
some  of  these  old  sighs  in  them?     Would'st  thou   under- 
stand the  ineffable  harmony  of  the  heavens,  the  silence  of 
the  night,  the  murmur  of  the  waves,   if  in   some   other 
jdaces  fever  and  sleeplessness  had  not  nnide  thee  think  of 
eternal  retl?     Hast   thou  not   now  a  fair    mistress — and, 
when  on  going  to  sleep,  thou  pressest  her  hand,  the  distant 
recollection  of  thy  youth  dqes  not  reader  her  divine  smile 
more  sweet.     Dost  thou  not  walk  together  iu  the  midst  of 
flowering  woods,  on  the  silvery  sand  and  in  that  palace 
of  verdure?     Does  the    white    spectre   of   the    poplar    no 
longer  show  the  road  by  the  ray  of  the  moon?     Dost  thou 
not  see,  as  then  by  the  ray  of  the  moon,  a  beautiful   form 
lean  her  hand    on   thy  arm — and   if  in   thy    path    thou 
shouldst  meet  with  fortune,  would'st  thou  not  follow   her 


100 

gaily  singing?     Of  what  Ihoti  dost  thou   complain?     Im- 
mortal hope  is  revived  in  thee  by  the  hand  of  misfortune. 
Oh,   my  child,  pity  her,  the  unfaithful  one,  who  formerly 
made  the  tears  flow  from    thy  eyes.     Wherefore   wouldst 
thou  hate  the  experience  of  thy  youth,  and  detest   an   ill 
which  has   rendered   thee    better?     Pity    her     she    is    a 
woman     and  God  made  thee,  when  with    her,   guess    by 
suffering,  the  secret  of  happiness.     Her  task  was  painful. 
She,   perhaps,   loved  thee,    but  destiny    willed  that  she 
should  break  thy  heart;  she  knew  life,  and  she  made  thee 
know  it.     Another  has  culled  the  fruit  of   thy   sorrow — 
pity  her — her  sad  love  has  passed  like  a  dream;  she  saw  thy 
wound,  but  could  not  close   it.     Her  tears   were  not    de- 
ceitful, and   even    though   they    were,   pity  her.     Thou 
now  knowest  how  to  love. 

POET. 

Thou  speakest  truth.  Hatred  is  imi)ious,  it  is  a  shud- 
dering, full  of  horror — when  that  viper,  curled  up  in  our 
hearts  unfolds  itself.  Hear  me  then,  Goddess,  and  be 
witness  of  my  oath.— By  the  blue  eyes  of  my  mistress — 
by  the  azure  of  the  firmament — by  that  brilliant  star  w'hich 
bears  the  name  of  Venus,  and,  like  a  diamond,  shines 
from  afar  on  the  horizon — by  the  tranquil  and  pure  light 
of  the  star,  dear  to  the  traveler — by  the  herbs  of  the 
prairie — by  the  forests — by  the  green  meadows — by  the 
powers  of  life — by  the  productive  force  of  the  universe,  I 
banish  you  from  my  memory,  remains  of  an  insensate 
love;  mysterious  and  dark  history  which  sleeps  with  the 
l^ast — and  thou  who  formerly  hast  borne  the  fame  and 
sweet  name  of  my  beloved,  the  instant  I  forgot  thee  for- 
ever ought  also  to  be  the  moment  of  forgiveness.  Let  us 
pardon  one  another.  I  break  the  chain  which  united  vis 
before  God.     With  my  last  tear  receive  an  eternal  adieu; 


^ 


plain?     Im- 
■  misfortune, 
rho  formerly 
■ore  wouldst 
letest   an   ill 
r    she   is   a 
r,   guess    by 
was  painful, 
led  that  she 
le  made  thoc 
hy   sorrow — 
;  she  saw  thy 
i'ero  not    de- 
her.     Thou 


it  is  a  shud- 
led  up  in  our 
doss,  and  be 
y  mistress — 
lit  star  w^hich 
nond,  shines 
nd  pure  light 
iierbs  of  the 
ows — by  the 
le  universe,  I 

an  insensate 
eps  with  the 
he  fame  and 
;jot  thee  for- 
iicss.  Let  us 
ich  united  us 
eternal  adieu; 


101 

jind  now,  fair  dreamer,  now,  Muse,  t'^  our  own  love- 
sing  me  some  joyous  song  as  in  llie  first  times  of  otif 
bright  days.  Alrea<ly  the  fragrant  lawn  feels  the  approach 
of  the  morning.  Como  to  walk  my  dearest,  and  to  smell 
the  flowers  of  the  garden;  come  to  see  immort:il  nature 
rise  from  the  veil  of  sleep,  wc  shall  revive  with  her,  at  the 
first  ray  of  the  sun. 

A.  Dc  Miisset. 


^'5St?idF3«ic^.; 


^ 


Id: 


-  Ill-  ,       ■ 

THE  NKillT  OF  DECEMBEU. 

T..   MY    l.llAR  SISTKK  JOSKIMIINK  CAM-ICiK,  (nKK  SOUVILLO.) 

At  the  time  I  was  a  school-boy    odo  evening  I  remain-   ^ 
ed  silting  up  in  the  lonely  hall;  there  came  to   sit  at   my 
table  a  poor  child  all  dressed  in  black,  who  resembled  me 
as  a  brother.     His  face  was  beautiful  and  sad ;  by  the  light  , 
of  my  lamp  he  came  to  read  in  my  open  book,  leaned  his 
forehead  on  my  hand/and  smiling,  remained  thoughtful 

until  the  morrow. 

When  I  was  fifteen  years  old  I  was  walking  one  day 
with  slow  steps  in  a  wood.  At  the  foot  of  a  tree  a  young 
man  dressed  in  black  came  to  sit,  who  resembled  me  as  a 
brother.  I  asked  him  my  way;  in  one  hand  he  had  a  lute, 
in  the  other  a  bunch  of  roses;  he  gave  ine  a  friendly  greet- 
ing,  and,  turning  away,  with  his  finger  pointed  to  the  hill. 

I  had  reached  the  age  when  we  believe  in  love.  One 
day  1  was  alone  in  my  room  with  the  tears  of  a  first  sor- 
row At  my  fireside  came  to  sit  a  stranger,  all  dressed  in 
black,  who  resembled  me  as  a  brother.  He  was  sad  and 
thoughtful;  with  one  hand  he  pointed  me  to  heaven,  and 
with  the  other  he  held  a  poniard.  It  seemed  that  he 
suffered  from  my  pains,  but  he  did  not  sigh,  and  vanish- 
ed like  a  dream.  ,      t      •     i 

At  the  age  when  man  is  licentious,  one  day  I  raised  my 
glass  to  drink  a  toast  at  a  feast;  opposite  to  me  come  to 
sit  a  guest,  all  dressed  in  black,  who  resembled  me  like  a 
brother.  Under  his  mantle  he  shook  a  rag  of  purple  torn 
to  pieces,  on  his  head  he  had  a  wild  myrtle,  his  thin  arm 
tried  to  press  mine,  and  the  drinking  glass  in  my  feeble 

hand  broke  as  soon  as  it  touched  his. 


;k  souvillo.) 

iig  I  remaiii- 
Lo  sit  at  my 
esombled  me 
;  by  tlie  light 
ik,  leaned  his 
i  thoughtful 

ing  one  day 
tree  a  young 
bled  me  as  a 
he  had  a  lute, 
fieudly  greet- 
3d  to  the  hill. 
1  love.  One 
of  a  first  sor- 
all  dressed  in 
was  sad  and 
heaven,  and 
tned  that  he 
1,  and  vanish- 

ly  I  raised  my 
me  come   to 

led  me  like  a 

of  purple  torn 
his  thin  arm 

in  my  feeble 


A  year  after  in  the  night  1  was  on  my  krees  at  lliu  Ix  1 
where  my  father  had  first  died,  there,  at  tho  bedside  came 
and  sat  an  oridian  nil  dressed  in  black,  win)  resemblc.l 
me  as  a  brother.  His  eyes  were  moistened  wilh  tear;-: 
like  the  angel  of  sorrow  be  wtis  crowned  with  thorns,  his 
lute  was  lying  »)n  tho  ground,  his  purple  was  the  color  of 
the  blood,  and  his  poniard  was  in  his  breast. 

I  recollect  him  so  well  that  always  in  every  moment  ci" 
my  life  T  recognized  him.  It  was  n  strange,  vision,  and, 
yet,  angel  or  devil,  I  have  seen   everywhere   his  friendly 

shade. 

When  later,  tired  of  suffering,  I  tried  to  exile  myself 
from  France  to  bo  born  again  or  to  die,  when   impatient 
of  moving  I  went  in  search  of  the   vestige  of  a  hope,   at 
Pisa,  to  the  feet  of  tho  Apenines— at  Cologne,  opposite  to 
Ehine— at  Nice,  to  the  declivity  of  tho  valley— at  Floren- 
ce, in  the  midst  of  palaces-atBrignes,  in  those  old  castles 
in  the  midst  of  the  desolate  Alps— at  Geneva,  under  the 
cedars— at  Vevey  under  the  green  apple  trees— at  Havre, 
in   front  of  the  Atlantic— at  Venice,  on  the  arid  Lido, 
where  on  the  grass  of  a  grave  has  just  died  the  pale  Ad- 
riatic;  everywhere  over  this   immense  earth  I  have   wan- 
dered, my  eyes  bleeding  from  everlasting  wounds;  every- 
where limping  weariness,  dragging  my  fatigue  after   it, 
has  dragged  me  in  a  hurdle;  everywhere  always  thirsting 
for  tho  knowledge  of  an  unknown,  1  went  after  the  shadow 
of  my  dreams;  everywhere,  without  having  lived,  I  have 
seen  what  I  had  already  seen,  the  human   face  and   its 
illusions;  everywhere  I  wished  to  live;  everywhere  I  wish- 
ed to  die;  everywhere  I  touched  the  land,  always  there 
came  across  my  path  a  wretched  man,  all  dressed  in  black, 
who  resembled  me  as  a  brother. 

Who  art  thou,  whom  in  this. life  I  have  met  in  my  way? 
Seeing  thee  so  sad,  I  cannot  believe  thee  to   be  my  ev' 


loi 


j^ciiius;  tliy  sweet  smile  is  full  of  iiilinite  patience,  and 
thy  tears  show  so  grout  pity.  In  looking  at  thee,  thy  sor- 
row seems  brother  to  my  pain,  and  resembles  friendship. 

Who  art  thou?  Surely  thou  art  not  my  good  angel. 
Never  thou  comest  to  advise  me.  Thou  seest  my  mis- 
fortunes, and  strange  to  say,  thou  indifferontly  dost  let 
me  sufTer.  For  twenty  years  thou  hast  walked  on  my  road, 
!ind  until  now  T  should  not  know  how  T  ought  to  call 
thee.  Thou  smilest,  without  partaking  of  my  joy.  Thou 
pitiest  me,  without  bringing  me  any  consolation. 

This  evening  also  thou  hast  appear-  1  lo  me.  The 
night  was  chilly.  Alone  bending  on  my  l)C'd  I  was  looking 
at  a  place,  yet  warm  with  burning  kisses,  and  was  think- 
ing how  soon  a  woman  forgets,  and  feeling  apart  of  my 
life  pine  away. 

I  collected  letters  of  past  days,  and  tresses  remains  of 
our  love.  All  this  past  repeated  the  eternal  oaths  of  a 
day.  I  was  looking  at  these  holy  relics  which  made  my 
hand  tremble.  Tears  of  my  heart,  devoured  by  the  heart, 
and  which  to-morrow  will  not  be  known,  even  from  the 
eyes  which  have  shed  them. 

I  wrapped  in  a  coarse  covering  the  remains  of  happier 
days,  Methought  that  here  below  what  lasts  longest  is  a 
lock  of  hair.  Like  the  diver  who  goes  down  in  a  deep 
sea  I  lose  myself  in  such  forgetfulness.  On  every  side  I 
revolved  the  probe,  and  alone  far  from  the  eyes  of  theworld 
I  mourned  o'er  my  poor  burisd  love. 

Already  I  was  prepared  to  seal  in  black  those  frail  and 
dear  treasures.  Already  I  was  to  restore  it,  and  not  being 
able  to  believe  it,  I  doubt  it.  Ah!  feeble  woman,  proud^ 
senseless,  in  thy  spite  thou  wilt  remember  me.  Why,  why 
liest  thou  to  thy  own  mind?  To  what  purpose  all  this 
weeping.  t}ds  heaving  bosom,  these  sobs  if  thou  dost  not 
love  me? 


atience,  and 
,hee,thy  sor- 
3  friendship, 
good  angol. 
est  luy  mis- 
itly  dost  let 
.  on  my  road, 
)ught  to  call 
y  joy.  Thou 
tion. 

lo  me.  The 
[  was  looking 
d  was  think- 
X  part  of  my 

remains  of 

I  oaths  of  a 

■h   made  my 

hy  the  heart, 

en  from   the 

13  of  happier 
i  longest  is  a 
n  in  a  deep 
every  side  I 
is  of  the  world 

ose  frail  and 
^ndnot  being 
3man,  proud ^ 
e.  Why,  why 
pose  all  this 
thou  dost  not 


10.') 

Yes  thou  laiiguirihest,  thou  sufferest,  thou  weopesl,  but 
ji  dark  shadow  is  between  us.  Well,  then,  good  bye, 
adieu.  Thou  wilt  count  the  hours  which  separate  thee 
from  me.  Go,  go,  ami  in  thy  cold  heart  satisfy  tliy  pride. 
I  feel  my  hea't  yet  young  and  strong,  and  many  evils 
could  yet  find  a  place  among  the  evils  that  you  luive 
caused  me. 

Go!  go!  im!/iortal  nature  had  not  endowed  thee  with  all 
virtues.  Ah:  poor  woman,  who  would  be  beautiful  and 
not  forgive.  Depart,  depart,  follow  thy  destiny.  I  who 
love  theo  have  not  yet  lost  all.  Throw  to  the  winds  our 
exstinguished  love.  Is  it  possible?  Thou  whom  I  loved 
so  much?     If  thou  wilt  go,  why  lovest  thou  me? 

But  suddenly  in  the  darkness  of  night  I  see  a  form 
cross  the  room  without  making  any  noise.  I  see  a  shadow 
apjiear  on  my  curtains;  it  comes  and  sits  on  my  bed. 
Who  art  thou,  pale  face,  sad  portrait  of  myself  dressed  in 
black?  What  wilt  thou,  wicked  bird  of  passage?  Is  it  a 
dream?  Is  it  my  own  image  that  I  see  in  the  glass?  Who 
art  thou,  ghost  of  my  youth,  pilgrim  whom  nothing  could 
tire.  Tellme  why  I  find  thee  on  the  shadow  everywhere  I  go. 
Who  art  thou  solitary  visitor,.assiduou3  host  of  my  pains? 
What  hast  thou  done  to  be  condemned  to  follow  me 
through  the  world?  Who  art  thou,  who  art  thou,  my 
brother  who  appears  lo  me  only  on  the  days  of  sorrow? 

THK  VISION 

Friend,  my  father  is  also  thine.  I  am  not  a  guardian 
angel,  neither  the  evil  genius  of  men.  I  do  not  know 
where  are  directed  the  stejis  which  I  love  in  this  little 
world  in  which  we  are. 

Iain  not  God,  neither  devil,  and  thou  hast  called  me 
by  my  name  when  thou  calledst  me  brother.  Where  thou 
wilt  go  I  will  alwiiys  follow  till  the  last  day   in   which   I 


will  go  to  sit  OP.  thy  grave.  lIcuvtMi  luith  entrusled  thy 
heart  tome.  When  tliou  suffo  rest,  come  to  me  without 
uueasiiioss;  I  will  come  after  thee  on  the  road,  but  I  can- 
not touch  thy  hand,  friend;  I  am 

THE  SOMTIDK. 

.1.  Dc  Mitsset. 


101 


pulrusted  thy 
I  me  without 
id,  hut  I   cau- 


sset. 


IV. 
INFAMY. 

TO  KEV.  HAUTUCY  (•AUMic-iiAKL,(//'"'"'^^''«.  Ontario.) 


Threo  families,  hungry,  naked,  shelterless,  twelve 
starved  children,  learning  early  in  life  huw  much  pity 
exists  in  human  hearts,  wandering  on  every  road,  with- 
out finding  shelter,  stopped  one  day  on  that  corner  which 
once  was  called  Switzerland  the  hospitable. 

At  the  sight  of  them  anger  is  suddenly  shown.  Rascals, 
vagabonds,  beggars  away  with  you!  Let  us  cast  this  ti- 
resome burden  on  our  neighbors!  Moneyless  tourists, 
come,  out  of  way!  Off  with  you!!  But  our  neighbors, 
thank  God,  have  police  like  us  for  such  visitors. 

You  may  sometimes  have  seen  panting  sheep,  ceaseles- 
sly  worried  by  butchers'  dogs  with  hungry  jaws,  bleating 
in  despair,  hurrying  and  pushing,  finding  no  place  to  run 
to,  to  fly  to,  to  escape  this  horrible  torture,  since  on  every 
side  they  are  ready  to  bite  them.  And  the  butcher's  boy 
gleefully  chuckles  and  hounds  them  on, "  Bite  him,  there's 
a  little  one  for  you.  "  Jt  is  blood,  it  is  flesh  that  the  dog 
tears.  It  is  an  eye  torn  out  that  hangs  on  the  jowl.  It  is 
a  life  in  tatters;  but  close  to  the  shambles  it  is  quicker 
work;  and  one  gets  through  his  business  all  the  sooner. 

So  the  poor  wretches  cast  out  on  the  frontier,  twenty 
times  are  roughly  repulsed.  Driven  on  and  back,  over 
marshes,  down  ravines,  through  forests,  caught,  let  go, 
caught  again,  from  twilight  to  dawn,  from  dawn  to  eve, 
they  go  on  again.  Oh,  horror!  in  vain  with  tears  and  cries 
the  little  ones  shew  the  tQrmentors  their  bleeding  feet;  in 
vain  the  rain  drenches  them,  freezes  them;  no  christian 
offers  them  a  place  under  his  roof;  no  hearth  for  a  moment 


wanus  Iho  pale   and   fleshless  bodied   of  these  wretched 

croutures.  ^  ^      ^ 

Exhausted,  they  complain  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible, 
"  Mother,  I  am  hungry,  cold;  mother  my  feet  are  bleeding; 
oh,  mother,  wait  a  little.  "  But  the  orders  nro  steri).  Living 
or  dead,  they  must  leave  the  country  without  delay.  They 
mu^it  tramp,  still  tramp;  and  the  police  have  many  other 
cares,  besides  these  cries  and  tears. 

Drag  them,  beat  them,  if  their  spirits  break  down.  No 
doubt  the  rod  will  restore  their  strength.  Let  us  see  how 
crders  are  carried  out,  and  if  to  excel  in  this  noble  com- 
petition the  zeal  of  different  districts  is  unequal,  so  that 
wo  may  give  the  prize  to  the  most  brutal. 

When  there  tomes  to  us,  dragging  on  a  useless  life, 
some  worn-out  millionaire,  well  taught  the  respect  due  to 
money,  we  sniff  him  and  require  nothing  more;  we  pass 
him  by  as  respectable,  and  humoring  his  whims,  we  find 
a  virtue  in  his  every  vice. 

Scruples  and  morality  we  keep  for  the  poor.  Let  us  be 
proud  of  our  hospitality;  it  is  like  a  tavern  dog  who 
humbly  fawns  on  his  master's  customers,  loves  good 
clothes,  hates  tramps,  and  always  bites  rags  and 
licks  velvet. 

Poverty,  poverty,  how  bitter  is  thy  wrath,  and  what  a 
crushing  burden  is  thy  load  of  misery!  Oh,  mother  of 
insults,  what  gall,  what  hatred,  what  fear,  dost  thou  pour 
during  thy  long  embraces,  on  those  whom  thou  choosest, 
cleaving  to  them   like  a  hideous  leprosy,   more   deadly 

every  day. 

Never  gaining  a  step,  the  poor  man  Iramps  day  by  day, 
wearing  out  his  whole  life  in  a  fight  with  famine,  to  add 
to  the  cares  of  to-day  more  racking  than  yesterday's,  those 
of  tomorrow,  which  wake  him  at  night;  unless,  indeed, 
he  spend  the  night  in  ruining  his  (yes  in  order  that  an- 
other mav  be  amused,  or  glitter  for  an  hour  or  two;tosee 


lese  wretched 

rcely  audible, 
tare  bleeding; 
steri).  Living 
t  delay.  They 
)  inuiiy  otlier 

ak  down.  No 
Let  us  see  how 
is  noble  com- 
3qual,  so  that 

I  useless  life, 
respect  due  to 
lore;  we  pass 
irhims,  we  find 

or.  Let  us  be 
ern  dog  who 
3,  loves  good 
es    rags     and 

1,  and  what  a 
3h,  mother  of 
iost  thou  pour 
thou  choosest, 
more   deadly 

ipsday  by  day, 
amine,  to  add 
iterday's,  those 
jnless,  indeed, 
aider  that  an- 
r  or  two;  to  see 


109 

his  dear  ones  hopelessly  hmgnish  in  want;  to  suffer  in 
their  suffering;  to  have  less  rest  than  the  cattle;  and  yet 
to  dread  losing  u  thankle-s  labour,  and  in  order  ti  keep  it, 
to  endure  everythins,  contouipt,  hard  words,  I'roiu  him 
who  iV.w'^H  hiiu  ii  scrap  of  work. 

That  is  his  fate,  and  his  mildest  fate,  too;  that  is  what 
he  is  when  ho  has  food,  when  he  is  to  bo  envied.  Ahl  now 
I  understand  knavery  and  cunning;  the  selling  of  soul 
and  body  to  avoid  such  misery;  every  means  being  good 
to  heap  up  money ;  for  all  is  forgiven  except  the  crime  of 

an  empty  purse. 

I  feel  myself  shuddering  with  profound  fear,  for  those 
who  have  bread,  for  the  world's  lucky  men,  when  I  see 
them  teach  the  hideous  lesson  that  there  is  no  room  in 
the  sunshine  except  for  them,  that  for  them  grow  the 
flowers  of  this  human  life,  for  others  the  thorns  and  end. 

less  woe. 

Ye  rich!  open  your  eyes,  it  is  now  or  never!  There  are 
noble  hearts  among  you,  I  know  there  are,  and  pride  has 
always  saved  me  from  envy,  but  most  of  you  have  only 
seen  one  aspect  of  life,  onlj  the  laughing  side  of  this  two- 
fold  world;  ah!  you  would  tremble  to  see  the  other! 

Find  a  quick  remedy  for  this  gnawing  evil.  In  pru- 
dence or  in  pity,  come  to  help  so  many  wretches  whose 
groans  becoming  evcrj  moment  more  distinct,  are  chang- 
ing into  shrieks  whi'di,  deaf  though  you  be,  the  noise  of 
your  feasts  cannot  drown. 

At  least  let  feur  loosen  your  finger:!.  Sometimes  after 
ball  or  concert,  you  throw  in  this  bottomless  pit  alms 
which  men  applaud,  and  which  fall  like  a  drop  of  water 
in  a  huge  conflagration;  then,  fools,  you  think  you  have 
satisfied  this  hungry  crowd  who  gnash  their  teeth. 

Apportion,  then  your  balm  to  the  horr.-r  of  the  wound. 
The  workman,  aghast  at  the  future,  must  have  a  labor 


r" 


110 

leas  thankless,  so  that  ho  may  think  of  his  chihlren,  of  his 
old  uge,  without  turning  pulo;  lio  must  live  und  musthavo 
some  joy,  some   little   of   tho  hapi)ino3s   which   Heaven 

sends  you. 

Make  haste  to   woep   for  every   moment!     Some    day 
death  will  come,  an  unhidden  guest,  tosit  at  yourl)anriuet 
Then  for  tho  evil,  which  you  have  permitted,  having  heeu 
able  to  prevent  it,on  earth,  you,  oh,  ye  rich,  shall   answer 
for  it  tooth  for  tooth,  eyo  for  eye,  body  for  ho.ly. 

For  him  whom  poverty  drags  into  crime,  for  the  maiden 
whom  poverty  defiles  and  throws  into  the  street,  for  the 
cheat,  the  groveler,  the  covetous,  for  all  those  whom  fa- 
mine  ruins,  the  anger  of  God,  taking  shape  before  your 
eyes,  will  ask  of  each  of  you,  "  Cain,  what  hast  tliou  done 
with  thy  brother?" 

lu  the  name  of  earth  and  heaven  help  the  poor.  Keep 
a  little  money  for  his  cup  of  wormwood.  In  your  feasts, 
vour  balls,  your  games,  let  tho  memory  rise  that  elsewhere 
some  ore  desolate!  Give, before  it  is  taken  awi.y  from  you, 
for  fear  lest  tho  flock  who  bleat  to-day,  mny  roar  to  morrow. 

A.  Richard. 


I J 


lil 


Idren,  of  his 
(1  inusthuvo 
icli   Heaven 

Some    (lay 
our  banquet 
having  been 
hull   answer 

r  the  maiden 
reot,  for  the 
le  wliom  fa- 
beforo  your 
t  tliou  (h)ne 

poor.  Keep 
yotir  feasts, 
Kit  elsewhere 
,'iiy  from  you, 
ir  to  morrow. 


XI 


■d. 


V. 

SAIXT.SYLVESTER. 

TU  I'l.'ol'.   n.VXII-.l-  WILSON,   M-.  I>. 

^President of  I 'nivcrsity  College,  Toronto. ) 

The  year  is  .lepartin-.  When  a  mere  Ix.y,  ign.^r  uit  of  Hie, 
the.e  .lays  to  n.e  were  so  beautiful,  and  sueb  hcdidays. 
Gaily,  with  .ny  soul  full  of  hoi-e,  I  ascende.l  those  hard 
steps  built  ui>  with  tombs. 

Tbe  pride  of  being,  and  of  growing,  shone  on  my  hice; 
u.ulern.v  golden  hair,  I  showed  n.yselfafair  flowering 
^brub  of\vhich  the   living  sap   drinks  and  oyerllowsjn 

the  sunlight.  ,    .    .  f!^'' 

If  1  counted  the  days,  it  was  not  for  complaining ol  tbe 

days,  already  past,   which   had  fallen    as    dead  branches; 

without  fear  1  coubl  contemplate  the  future,  and  without 

remorse  I  could  enjoy  tbe  present. 

Far  very  far  from    tbe    ancestral    hearth  with    empty 

heart,'mournful  spirit  and  broken  body,  forsaken   amidst 

the  swarmhig  city,  sad,  depressed,  martyrized,  to-day  the 

future  frigthens  me. 
To  me  it  is  like  a  dream,  in  which  the  pains  of  the  dny 

come  back  in  turn  to  persecute  us  with  human  face,  and, 

without  rest,  scourge  us  with  love. 

A.  Richard. 


^   •■i^!^^£i>a-: 


112 


VI. 
THE  TWO  MOTIIKllS 

TO  HON.  cllltlrt.  H.   I'ATTKliaON. 

{Jiid^'C  of  the  Court  oj  Appeal) 


"  I  niiist  go,  anil  imi.xt  tiikc  uway  from  tliy 

arm-',  nil,  imor  wretch,  lliis   my  darling,  j 

who  has  iiiado  thte  m  luipjiy.  " 

■^■■1.'     ■■-■ 

On  tho  river  Loire  wliicli,  liko  n  silv(M-  thrciul,  runs 
over  II  hundred  miles  df  liappy  land,  proud  und  gay,  tlio 
citadel  of  Sauniur  raises  its  head. 

Liko  fresh  beauties  bathing  themselves  in  the  seu,  lier 
white  houses  extend  along  tho  river,  half  naked  and  half 
masked  by  vineyards  and  roses.  Neither  lieat  nor  frost. 
It  is  an  eternal  spring.  Oh,  yes!  beautiful  and  cheerful  ii 
the  citadel  of  Sauniur. 

And  there  near  the  walls,  like  a  soft  pillow,  is  a  gentle 
declivity  with  his  maullo  of  verdure  and  the  shadows  of 
its  avenues.  But  this  verdure,  and  these  flowers  are  not 
a  complete  paradise,  and,  mixed  with  uuch  u  celestial 
smile,  is  a  house  of  sorrows. 

Yes,  a  mad-house  is  at  the  extremity  of  the  avenue. 
Amidst  the  silence  of  the  night,  amidst  the  gloomy  wail- 
ing of  the  wind,  are  heard,  interrupted,  plaintive  and 
deep  sounds  of  lament,  merry  songs  or  strange  voices, 
blasphemies  and  atrocious  laughs. 

And  a  strong  feeling,  of  which  nobody  dares  to  ask  the 
reason,  forces  every  person  to  pay  a  visit  to  this  living 
churchyard. 


11:5 


thrciul,    runs 
uutl  gay,    tlio 

I  tlio  sou,  her 
ike  J  and  half 
loat  nor  frost, 
u  1  cheerful  is 

ow,  i3  a  gentle 
le  shadows  of 
Dwc-rs  are  not 
ich  u  celestial 

Df  the  avenue, 
gloomy  wail- 
plaintive  and 
trange  voices, 

iros  to  ask  the 
.  to  this   living 


n. 

On  tin*  hist  hour  of  ii  siiliMulid  sunset  a  heaulU'ul  young 
lady,  giving  hcT  hand  to  In-r  little  daugliler,  aHcendrt  tho 
hill.  Jlow  rhurniing  was  the  little  angel  nf  live  years, 
droHrto  1  iu  white,  fresh,  HUiiling,  handsome  un<l  niinble. 

The  shining  fair  hair  disccnds  on  Ikt  shoulder-i  like 
waves,  au'l,  with  her  provoking  looks,  <'all  for  kisses. 
"Mother,  euii  you  te'.l  me  liow  those  poor  niadmeii  live? 
Oh!  how  anxious  I  am  toseothem;  mother,  come." 

Tho  d  tor  is  open,  they  ascend  two  stairs,  they  aro  iu 
tho  asylum  court.  It  was  the  lime  of  the  daily  walk,  tho 
hour  of  tho  gaiety.  Oi:e  walks  heavily,  another  reeites, 
mid  another  sings.  Some  jump  up  and  down,  some  sit 
on  the  ground  and  others  laugh. 

A  woman  with  loose  hair  and  a  dark  petticoat,  alone, 
far  nway  iu  tho  cc  .ner,  sits  on  a  bench  as  if  tired  hy  long 
work.  On  her  pale  cheeks  there  is  an  old  trace  of  tears. 
She  turns  around  her  stui)i<l  and  dull  glazed  eyes. 

Go<l  had  given  her  us  a  token  of  a  lirst  love  a  gii'  whoso 
face  was  tis  beautiful  as  that  of  a  cherub.     IIow  she  did 
love   her   dear  daughter,  how   she    watched    her    white 
cradle!     Il.dy  and  deep  aff-iction!     For  this  hn[n>y    mo- 
ther her  girl  was  tho  world.     A  cruel   illness   had   stolen 
this  gem  of  her  life,  ond   heartbroken  from    the   great 
sorrow  she  became  mad,  and  for  five  years  the  poor  wretch 
waited  for  her  darling,  and  asked  of  all,  if  they  hud   seen 
the  lost  one.     Everybody  who  saw  her  with  this  iutense 
pain  engraved  on  her  squalid  forehead   feels  in   his   own 
soul  a  charm  forcing  him  to  tears.     The  kind  lady  up- 
proached  near  the  unhappy  mother,  prob  ibly  moved   by 
such  great  sorrow. 

Clinging  to  tho  skirt  of  her  dress  her  little  daughter 
thrusts  forward  her  head,  and  with  her  eyes  filled  with 


£:S>>.Wi£-QSi«E'"^>'V«6 


J,  ;^.i«  .-;«».. '.!.U:v. 


114 

tears,  she  said:  "Poor  thing!"    Then  softly    approached 
the  mad  woman  and  with  her  little  hand   caressed  her 

dark  hair. 

Shaken  at  this  touch  the  unhappy  one  turns  a  look  to 
the  little  ango!.  and  a  strange  light  shines  in  hor  eyes; 
then  fixedly  looking  at  her,  ,sho  uttered  u  cry,  opened  her 
arms,  and  with  an  impetuosity  of  affection  pressed  the 
little  one  to  his  hreast. 

"  Oh,  my  daughter,  my  dear  daughter,  how  strong  is 
this  joy  which  overflows  my  heart!  Almighty  God,  let 
me  die  in  such  happiness!  Die?  Who  speaks  of  death? 
To  live,  I  say,  yes,  I  will  live  now  that  I  have  found  thee 
and  I  will  live  always  near  my  child. 

"  Come,  sit  here  on  my  knees;  let  ine  kiss  thy  beautiful 
eyes,  let  me  forget  these  few  years  of  horrid  anguish. 
From  the  very  first  day  I  lost  thee,  my  eyes  had  no  more 
tears,  but  the   excessive   ecstasy  of  this  hour   makes  me- 

weep  anew. 

"  Toll  me,  where,  where  thou  hast  been  all  these  years 
I  was  in  search  of  tiiee?  Hast  thou  perhaps  been  in  the 
joy  of  the  other  life?  But  even  in  heaven  in  vain  (hou  hast 
asked  my  sweet  kisses,  and  now  thou  comest  back  to  the 
loving  embraces  of  thy  mother.  Thou  comcst  now  and 
wilt  ffy  no  more  from  these  arms.  I  would  rather  die.  Oh, 
yes,  I  Vcol  that  surely  I  would  die,  if  again  thou  wert  taken 
uway  from  me." 

.       .  III. 

In  such  a  way  she  spoke  and  convulsively  pressed  the 
girl  to  her  panting  bosom,  and,  in  the  intoxication  of  her 
deluded  affection,  kisses  without  number  ca.ne  from  the 
burning  lips.  It  was  a  fever  of  infinite  love  that  sweetly 
melted  her  heart.  The  dear  girl  with  her  little  hand 
caressed  the  dark  hair,  and,  in  return,  kissed  the  unhappy 


115 


tipproachecl 
caressi'.l  her 

rns  a  look  to 

in  hor  eves; 

',  opened  her 

pressed   the 

OAV  strong  is 
;hty  God,  let 
aks  of  death? 
'^e  found  the  e 

thy  beautiful 
rrid   anguish. 

had  no  more 
ir   makes  me 

dl  tliese  years 
3  been  in  the 
vain  thou  hast 
t  back  to  the 
iicst  now  and 
atlier  die,  Oh, 
lou  wert  taken 


y  pressed  the 
xication  of  her 
Liiue  from  the 
'e  that  sweetly 
L>r  little  hand 
d  the  unhappy 


woman  and  smiled  at  lier  with  love's  smile,  tlie  young 
mother  not  daring  to  trouble  the  joy  of  such  a  l)rief 
enchantment. 

In  the  meantime  the  falling  evening's  twilight  Avas 
shedding  its  pale  light,  and  the  dread  band  of  guards 
opened  the  door  of  the  inner  staircase,  the  clock  of  the 
asylum  calling  the  family  of  the  lunatics  to  their  respect- 
ive cells.  The  kind  stranger  who  feared  to  destroy  the 
joy  of  this  holy  mistake  approached  near  the  poor  mad 
woman,  telling  her  in  a  pitiful  voice  of  love,  "  1  must  go 
and  I  must  take  away  from  thy  arms,  poor  wretch  this  my 
darling,  who  has  made  thee  so  happy!"  Jumping  up 
the  nuid  woman  with  ferocious  fear  pressing  the  girl  to 
her  breast,  "  Who  art  thou,"  she  cried  to  her  with  harsh 
voice,  "  who  eomest  to  trouble  my  motherly  affection?  " 

"Knowest  thou  not  that  neither  Satan  nor  God  could 
ravish  me  of  my  little  angel?  Away,  far  from  me.  Woe 
to  him  who  will  dare  to  touch  only  a  hem  of  her  dress. 
Rather  that  permit  her  to  be  taken  from  my  arms,  I  would 
rather  she  should  die,  oh,  yes,  I  will  kill  her  rather  than 
lose  1 


ur  again. 


Neither  prayer  nor  threat  could  subdue  the  delusion  of 
her  mind,  and  with  her  lean  arm  raising  the  little  girl,  if 
anyone  came  forward,  only  a  step,  she  meant  to  throw  her 
on  the  ground,  and  such  was  the  strong  resolution  gleam- 
ing from  her  gesture  and  from  her  accents,  that  it  was 
thought  better  to  leave  her  alone,  and  to  await  the  events 
of  tlie  night. 

Therefore  all  retired,  and  she  with  the  girl  ran  into  her 
cell,  and  there,  in  haste  putting  in  order  the  bed,  laid  her 
child  in  it,  and,  arranging  with  care  the  folds  of  the  rough 
sheets,  joyfully  sits  at  the  bedside  looking  at  her,  smiling 
and  kissing  her. 

Under  the  pressure  of  the  hand   which   softly  caresses 


no 

the  girl,  she  shut  her  hirge  eyes,  and,  yielding  to  weariness 
and  sleep,  fell  into  a  sweet  slumber,  whilst  the  mud  woman 
who  was  near  her,  soothed  her  repose  with  this  song: 

"  Sleep,  girl,  my  jealous  eye  as  a  guardian  angel  watches 
at  thy  pillow,  and  the  interminable  kiss  like  music 
soothes  thy  slumbers, 

"  Sleep,  darling,  and  let  me  see  thy  moist  brow,  let  me 
in  the  pure  ecstany  of  superhuman  delirium  intoxicatu 
myself  with  thy  warm  breath. 

"  Beautiful  thou  art!  thy  cheek  is  rosy,  thy  head  rests 
upon  thy  snow-white  arm,  and  the  halo  of  thy  fair  hair 
in  a  gentle  disorder  sorrouuds  Ihy  forehead. 

"  Beautiful  thou  art!  in  the  quiet  rest  of  thy  face  I  seem 
to  see  a  ray  of  paradise,  and  in  the  celestial  joy  which 
shines  in  thy  looks,  I  see  the  image  of  happy  dreams. 

"  Dream,  and  in  thy  sleeping  may  the  rainbow  ]  our  its 
colors,  the  stars  their  rays,  the  flowers  their  perfumes, 
and  may  the  Holy  Virgin*  send  from  the  paradise  a  com- 
pany of  angels  to  hover  around  thee." 

IV. 

There  the  voice  become  faint  as  the  sound  of  a  distant 
harp,  and  her  tired  forehead  fell  on  the  pillow  of  the  little 
one.  Once  again  the  calm  sleep  of  the  happy  days  re- 
turned  to  her  tired  eyes. 

The  young  mother  absorbed  in  that  fear  which  surpas- 
ses all  fears,  from  the  wicket  of  the  iron  door  peeped  into 
the  dark  room,  wiiere  every  movement,  every  kiss,  every 
noise  was  a  stroke  of  a  poniard  which  pierced  her  heart. 

But  when  all  was  silent,  and  there  was  only  heard  the 
cadence  of  two  respirations,  softly  and  gently  a  keeper 
crept  into  the  room,  advanced  silently  and  without  awak- 
ening the  little  one,  who  was  sleeping,  took  her  with  him 
and  shut  the  door. 


T 


I 


ng  to  weariness 
[he  mud  woman 
I  this  song: 
a  angel  watches 
iss    like     music 

st  brow,  let    mo 
•ium   intoxicate 

thy  head,  rests 
f  thy  fair  hair 
vd. 

'  thy  face  I  seem 
stial  joy  Avhich 
ppy  dreams, 
rainbow  jour  its 
their  perfumes, 
paradise  a  com- 


und  of  a  distant 
illowof  the  little 
happy  days  re- 

ar  which  surpas- 
door  peeped  into 
very  kiss,  every 
erced  her  heart. 
;  only  heard  the 
gently  a  keeper 
id  without  awak- 
lok  her  with  him 


117 

The  mother  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  which  echoed  in  the 
wide  sonorous  vaults,  and  kissing  her  dear  lost  angel, 
pressed  her  to  her  heart,  an<l  ran  through  the  dark  cor- 
ridor with  her  tightly  clasped  in  her  motherly  arms. 

The  mad  woman  awakened  at  the  sound  of  the  strange 
cry,  perceived  herself  to  be  alone,  looked  around,  and 
from  the  hole  in  the  door,  by  the  light  of  a  dying  lamp, 
she  saw  the  white  dress  of  the  fugitive  girl.  A  horrible 
cry  of  rage  was  heard,  her  eyes  were  suffused  with  blood, 
and  with  a  foam  on  her  livid  lips  she  stretced  forth  her 
arms  and  rushed  forward.  Thrice  she  shook  the  unyield- 
ing door,  then  fell  backwards  a  corpse. 

Fi/sinafo. 


■■r^ai^)i*:*H^^  *?i:s*va«i:*A 


ir. 

i 
I 


lis 

VII. 
THE  PIIOGRESS. 

TO  MKS.  MI  MU'UX,  {Buffdh,  N.  Y.) 

Vainly  «lo  we  mingle  arts  and  sciences,  never,  Oh!  Na- 
ture,  shall  be  able  to  reach  thy  magniHcence  so  great  and 
nt  the  same  time  to  simple.  Always  we  shall  be  out  done 
bv  thy  specimens,  all  our  temples,  all  our  palaces,  all  our 
immJrtal  works  are  not  comparable  to  the  immense  dom(> 

of  the  forests.  ,  .    ,  , 

The  most  beautiful  colors  prepared  by  mankind  become 
pale  beside  the  pearly  depth  of  four  drops  of  water  reflect- 
ing  the  pure  sk, .  Color-changing  mohair,  fine  laces, 
gauze,  nor  satin  doth  equal  the  wings  of  a  beautiful  but- 
tertly  fluttering  into  space. 

The  steamer  which  we  see  hurling  itself  on  his  fiery 
course,  throwing  into  the  air  its  thrilling  voice,  still  nurtur- 
ed the  flames,  and  tamed  by  a  gesture  cannot  follow  the 
bird,  whose  towering  flight,  without  breaking  the  harm- 
onious silence,  soars  through  the  expanse  of  blue. 

Then  thousand  torches  of  serene  light  which  electricity, 
this  new  queen,  has  sent  to  human  genius  to  fight  with 
darkness,  are  those  wor.h  a  single  ray  of  the  sun  whioli 
glancing  from  a  stream,  gilds  the  branches;  or  the  moon 
on  a  beautiful  evening,  or  a  glittering  star? 

AH  the  bold  dogmas,  the  dark  systems  invented  at 
random  by  men,  and  which  one  sees  dominating  by  turn 
here  below,  cannot  eqi-al  that  sublime  belief  in  a  God  who 
must  punish  because  lie  is  just  and  holy,  and  Who  at  the 
same  time  well  knows  how  to  forgive  because  He  is  Love. 

A.  de  Chambrlcy. 


II.) 

VIII. 
THE  STOUM  AT  THE  SAINT- UEUNARD. 


■) 

ever,  Oh!  Na- 
e  so  great  and 
allbeout  (louo 
palaces,  all  our 
immense  dome 

inkind  become 
of  water  re  fleet- 
air,  fine  laces, 
I  beautiful  but- 

If  on  his  fiery 
ce,  still  nurtur- 
not  follow  the 
ing  the  harm- 
of  blue. 

lich  electricity, 
J  to  fight  witli 
ihe  sun  which 
s;  or  the  moon 

IS  invented  at 
nating  by  turn 
efin  a  God  who 
md  Who  at  the 
use  He  is  Love. 

nbr'ur. 


TO  J.  I'KscrA  M.  ]).,(.S'<r«  Francisco,  Cal.) 
lUit  it  i.-i  <loiu',— ill!  \vov<ls  uri!  idlp. 

liYKOS. 

Come,  little  ones,  do  not  cry!  Boon  you  shall  sco  your 
father.     Thou  llie  eldest  say  thy  prayer!     Couie,  cliihlron, 

do  not  cry. 

"Mother,  when  will  he  return?"— ^"  My  son  this  time 
surely  he  has  set  off  later.  A  business  is  disrussod  which 
ends  at  the  table,  and  afterward  one  leaves  it  hardly  able 
to  see.  At  the  table  one  has  always  something  more  to  say." 

"  Mother  it  is  dark  "— "  Child  it  is  a  cloud.  The  sky  is 
bright  at  the  villaire.  Besides  thy  father  is  a  prudent 
man;  more  than  once  he  has  made  this  journey.  May 
Saint-Bernard  make  calm  the  wind.  " 

Thus  the  mother,  in  her  poor  cottage,  tries  to  hide  the 
fear  to  which  she  is  a  prey:  and  many  times,  in  cruel 
anxiety,  stretches  the  ear,  and  thinking  that  son>el)ody  is 
walking,  says  to  herself:  why  does  he  delay  so  long?" 

Why  docs  he  delay  so  long?  Look  at  the  valley  woman! 
Look  at  these  whirlwinds  and  at  the  she-goat  running 
towards  thy  solitary  hut,  and  at  the  obscurity  darkening 
the  forests  before  the  time. 

Cross  thyself,  and  listen  to  these  creaking  siiualls  whose 
doleful  notes  seem  to  S[)eak  of  death:  and  to  the  fall  far 
off  which  roars  at  intervals;  and  hoar  the  voice  of  the 
torrents  now  swelling,  now  decreasing. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  moaning  the  shivering  leaves  aiul 
the  wind  ingulfed  in  the  deep  woods,  and  the  hurricane, 
curried  on  its  powerful  wings,  plunging  from  the  top  of 
the  mountains  in  the  gloomy  valley? 


.i.jjicj^i^jy.-i?^-^-jiv.^^K^(J!^g!cf!^4kt.'ls»i^ 


120 

Poor  woiniiii! — Tii  S2)ite  of  so  nniny  signs  cf  storm  a 
I)casant  at  the  fall  of  the  day,  was  inaiching  over  the 
fearful  Saint-liernard.  Iii  the  vigor  of  the  age,  ami  in 
order  to  see  sooner  again  his  rustic  abode,  he  has  despised 
many  wise  advices.  lie  had  left  Aosta;  alas!  and  the  im- 
prudent had  passed  before  the  hospice  without  entering  it. 

Cheerful  he  was  going  on  through  the  mountain.  Some- 
limes  sinking  waist-deep  in  the  snow,  he  was  saying,  so 
little  was  he  frightened,  "It  is  nothing!  "  and  laughed  in 
getting  out  of  the  snow,  then  without  fear,  courageous,  as 
he  was  in  the  middle  of  the  country,  he,  careless  of  the 
weather,  lighted  his  pipe  and  whistled  an  old  tune  loved 
by  his  children. 

May  God  kee[.  you  friend  May  the  propitious  Virgin 
drive  back  the  storm  to  the  extremity  of  the  horizon  and 
avert  thy  foot  from  the  precipice!  But  better,  if  thou 
-fvishest  to  see  again  thy  house,  without  delaying  a  moment 
gv-^,  return  to  the  hosjdce!  There  are  the  guardian  angels 
of  the  traveior.s;  at  the  risk  of  their  own  they  will  save 

thy  life. 

The  air  became  brisk.  The  sky  covered.  The  clouds 
before  scattered  which  one  had  seen  shine  enflamed,  now 
lie  close,  black  and  full  of  havoc,  like  batallions  formed  for 
an  attack.  The  avalanche  soon  will  hinder  the  road.  Do 
not  go,  do  not  go! 

Already  the  snow  whirls  around  him.  He  hears  sounds 
which  usually  render  men  i)ale,  and  that  nameless  voice 
which  continually  resounds,  now  seeming  to  cry,  now  to 
roar.  It  is  the  wind  of  the  desert!  It  is  the  voice  which 
in  this  place  of  woe  nobody  hears  without  trembling, 
which  no  other  voice  could  resemble. 

In  the  plain  when  the  storm  comes,  the  waters  witli 
their  roars  answers  to  its  voice.  The  tree  of  which  in  its 
rage  it  tries  to  bend  the  head,  stirs  and  stands  erect  hiss- 


121 


of  storm  a 
ng  over  tlio 
age,  ami  in 
has  dc'siiiscd 

and  tlieini- 
t  entering  it. 
itain.  Some- 
s  saying,  so 
1  ]anglied  in 
nrageous,  as 
reless  of  the 
1  tune  loved 

ilious  Virgin 
horizon  and 
Iter,  if  thou 
ng  a  moment 
irdian  angels 
ley  will  save 

The  clouds 
iiflamed,  now 
ns  formed  for 
the  road.  Do 

hears  sounds 
imeless  voice 
)  crv,  now  to 
3  voice  which 
ut  trembling, 

waters  with 
f  which  in  its 
ds  erect  hiss- 


In  the  mountains  instead  nothing  answers  to  the 
storm,  there  nctthing  stoi)s  it.  No  rival  roaring  has  ever 
moderated  there  the  horrible  majesty  of  this  dreaded  voice. 
The  unfortunate  insists.  He  marches.  At  the  end  of 
an  hour  he  begins  to  feel  his  leg  <iall.  "  Pshaw!  it  is  the 
wind.  Let  us  reaeh  home!  But  I  do  not  know  why  I  am 
growing  cold. " 

Wretch!  What  hast  thou  done?  Who  is  able  to  pre- 
serve Ihee  to  thy  wife  who  cries,  to  thy  eliildren?  Do  not 
hope  for  any  help  here  below:  (Jod  only  can  save  thee. 

He  goes,  goes.  lie  feels  the  great  allurement  of  a 
sleepiness  which  oppresses  him  and  whieh  he  vainly  tries 
to  drive  back.  "I  wish  to  sleep  a  while  to  acquire 
strength,"  says  he,  "in  order  to  pursue  my  journey.  "  Go, 
go  on  imprudent!  Thou  must  endeavor  not  to  yield  to 
the  spell  which  lulls  thee  to  sleej).  Go  on.  To  sleep  here, 
it  is  death. 

lie  sits.  Ilis  eyes  soon  close  to  the  light.  Confused 
but  attractive  objects  deceive  him.  He  believes  he  sees 
afar  his  hut,  and  hears  walk  his  wife  and  his  children. 
"  Well,"  says  he  opening  his  eyelids  "  I  must  go.  I  see 
them.  They  come.  1  am  better.  "  Then  he  gets  up, 
and  falls,  closing  the  eyes. 

Later,  in  the  savage  little  valley,  a  traveler,  passing, 
met,  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  a  pale-faced  mother,  whose 
voung  children  were  tendering  the  hands  for  alms,  saying, 
"God  may  help  you  in  your  journey!"  He  wished  to 
know  their  story.     "Our  father  died,  "  they  answered. 

A.  Richard. 


;S=St}S*?,fnS»i3-'ak'«fiKSTI..'»«»--: 


1  -ll 

IX. 
Till':  UNKNOWN  LUillT. 


TO  MISS  FANNY   LKK,  {C/liat^'O,  ILL.) 

When  (liirkiu'ss  comes,  be  the  nij,'lit.  ch)U(ly  or  clear, 
suddenly  on  the  distant  heights  1  see  shining  a  light 
which  may  he  taken  for  a  golden  star.  Every  evening 
without  fail  it  glistens  at  the  hour  when  the  hills  are 
vanishing  into  the  gloom,  which  slowly  veils  the  world  as 

it  goes  to  rest. 

Often  I  contemplate  this  solitary  ray,  which  reaches 
me  full  of  vague  mysteries.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  ii>e 
that  it  lures  me  towards  it.  and  a  thousan<l  strange  desires 
thrill  my  being.  I  should  like  to  turn  aside  from  beaten 
tracks  and  direct  my  steps  to  this  light  which  beams  and 
gleams.  I  let  my  heart  wander  at  my  fancy's  pleasure, 
and  by  turn  a  thousand  visions  pass  before  my  eyes,  soon 

to  vanish. 

First  it  is  a  young  golden-tressed  maiden,  with  large 
blue  eyes  filled  with  brightness  so  serene  and  pure  that 
they  make  one  dream  of  heaven. 

Thoughtful  and  diligent  she  sews  unceasingly;  she 
wishes  to  finish  her  task  this  very  evening,  but  often  her 
sweet  sparkling  eyes  turn  tow.u-ds  the  easy  chair  where 
her  grandfather  is  slumbering,  while  the  lamp  sheds  a 
reddish  glow  on  the  forehead  of  this  noble  white- haired 

old  nian. 

Or  it  is  a  young  shepherd  who  to  rest  himself  from  his 
weary  labor  comes  to  meet  his  betrothed  and  sits  down 
beside  her;  he  is  strong  and  manly,  she  beautiful  and 
active,  and  near  both,  a  mastiff  their  faithful  companion 
sleeps  with  his  head  resting  on  the  ground. 

In  low  tune  they  murmur  sweet  things  to  each  other, 


■"^^fSj'*Fj«*vTWia«aaWMyir5sat^*HW»'fl^  ^Bw^awtfa 


Mwmmm'ii0*^:  ■*>«;».  imi'fl«iTnlrnnT'-*«iif  -3irrf1t*vu'*^-i^s*ii 


1 


) 

idy  or  clear, 
ling  a  light 
ery  evouiag 
he  hills  are 
I  the  world  as 

liich  reaches 
soeins  to  me 
range  desires 
from  beaten 
ih  beams  and 
y's  pleasure, 
ny  eyes,  soon 

I,  with  large 
id  pure  that 

3asingly;  she 
)ut  ofleu  her 

chair  where 
imp  sheds    a 

white-haired 

ist'lf  from  his 
nd  sits  down 
beautiful  and 
il  companion 

0  each  other. 


123 

they  expect  to  wed  in  the  time  of  roses  when  birds  make 
their  nests,  and— what  peals  of  laughter!  The  dog  pricks 
up  his  ears,  and  with  his  big,  sleeny  eyes  half  opon 
watches  them  like  an  old  and  trusted  iriend. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  learned  man,  a  thinker,  an  artist,  who 
seeks  the  calm,  who  is  sad  in  the  crowd,  and  wlio  gives 
the  watches  of  the  night  to  toil.  He  thinks  himself  for- 
gotten  in  his  severe  retreat,  not  guessing  that  my  hciirt 
piercing  earth's  fogs,  understands  him,  and  that  my  eyes 

follow  him. 

Or  again  in  the  depths  of  my  memory,  stumbling  over 
the  remains  of  ancient  history,  1  think  of  some  gnome 
seated  near  a  tomb  where  sleeps  a  princess  with  ^long 
raven  black  hair,  her  pale  face  strangely  serene,  waiting 
to  be  awakened  by  a  young  and  beautiful  prince. 

Alasl  And  it  is  thus  that  I  preserve  my  dreams!  I 
remember  them  always  without  fatigue  and  without  rest. 
More  than  once  I  have  said  to  myself:  "To-morrow  at 
dawn  I  will  go  in  person  to  search  fot  the  last  word  of 
this  problem.  ..."  but  the  following  day  never  finds  me 
on  the  road. 

I  am  afraid  of  seeing  my  palace  of  chimeras  crumble; 
the  sweet  illusions  of  my  heart  are  dear  to  mc  I  lovo  so 
much  to  dream  alone  in  the  darkness.  Seeing  thee  near, 
thou,  modest  lamp,  surely  I  shouM  say:  "Alas!  pour 
poet,  thy  dreams  are  better  than  reality!  " 

A.  de  CUambrier. 


^j^l^^^i^if^-Tyijft:^^-;:^^,'^^  .."^^£i?Si-:i5^?^'v^ 


T( 


124 
X. 

MONO  LOCI  UE 
of 

ClIHlSTorilKU   COM   MISL'S. 
»  TlIK  COXSri,  OK  ITALY,  I'AV.  (i.   M.  (il  A  NX  KM. I. 


I  um  dying,  old  and  wrctchod,  tiiid  it  was  right  that  I 
should  di'o  in  such  uwayl  My  iifo,  toiled  through  sillier- 
ing,  ends  with  grief;  but  amidst  all,  c;od  granti'<l  so  great 
and  infinito  a  joy,  that  every  pain  coiniuire.l  to  it  ca.jses  a 
smile.  (Jod,  ,vho,  when  He  pours  on  the  world  a  ray  of 
eternal  light,  ieconunends  it  to  Italy,  His  beautiful  Italy 
thus  spnke  to  me:  "  Daring  Oenoese,  try  the  sun's  path!  " 

And  I  turned  my  eyes  to  the  West,  and  I  saw  a  new 
world,  as  it  were,  rise  from  the  wa-.-es;  immense  I'orests 
of  unknown  trees,  immense  rivers,  i.nmeu^ie  plains.  There 
were  the  softs  fruits  which  distant  India  ripens,  which 
Europe  envies  and  desires;  birds  nameless  with  us,  dif- 
lerent  wild  beasts,  seas  lilled  with  pearls,  and  mountains 
of  gold— and  the  voice  said:  "  Go;  come  back  and  tell  the 

story. " 

But  I  am  poor;  sails  do  not  spiead  at  my  command.  1 
liave  nothing  but  a  thought!  And  1  brought  my  thought 
to  the  crowned  heads  of  the  world  and  asked  a  little  gold 
for  recompense.  Alas!  I  was  derided.  For  three  long 
lustres  I  was  scorned  and  went  wandering  about,  and  no- 
body  understood  me.     I  heard  not,  I  saw  not! 

Here,  bring  me  nearer  to  the  balcony;  for  pity's  sake 
do  not  take  away  from  me  the  sight  of  the  sea!  The  sea ! 
the  sea!  my  kingdom,  the  friend  of  my  youth  and  of  my 
glory!  let  me  greet  it  a  last  time,  and  let  me  depart  on 
that  yourney  from  which  nobody  returns. 


•:ii»CIfi%3w'-a-w«rKR*i.LV7Sv:*-J»  <4i^w«*«>«M5:^^i*a^i>«Nt'ai-3fflKfnftiiie  I-=a«r«Tfeiy*-S5*« 


125 


Ni;  I.I.I. 

ij:fht  tlmt  I 
n\^\\  Hulfer- 
;o(l  so  grt'iit 

0  it  ciiHos  a 
Id  a  ray  of 
lutiful  Italy 
un'spath!  " 
saw  a  now 

Biise  I'orests 
aiiis.  There 
lens,  which 
ith  us,   dif- 

1  mountains 
and  tell  the 

snimand.  I 
niy  thought 
a  little  gold 
three  long 
out,  und  no- 
I 

pity's  sake 
a!  The  sea! 
1  and  of  my 
e   depart  on 


I  was  HO  glad,  so  .serene  wlu-ii,  >i  he  • -t  time,  I 
(dialleuged  it.  Courageous,  I  pushed  niydeh'  on  itd  o|»eu 
hoaoiu  where  nian'.s  eye  never  yet  reached.  Foolish  roward- 
ice  imagined  it  to  ho  fdled  with  monstord  and  terrors.  I 
was  not  afraid. 

Fly  my  ship;  if  i  ly  heart  heats  it  is  not  for  fear  of  th»» 
waves  but  of  my  follower.^.  Fly,  Hy  my  sship,  let  not  mi- 
schievous omens  arrest  thy  swift  course.  Anew  land  is 
there.  Gaily  and  speedily  let  us  make  sail  for  the  foreign 
shore;  let  us  follow.  God  protects  the  hold  undertaki'.ig. 
The  wind  is  propilious,  and  the  waves  are  gentle. 

But  already  days  go  hy,  mouths  have  passed  away,  and 
no  trace  (*f  new  countries  i.s  perceived.  Our  life  is  always 
between  heaven  and  sea,  and  conlidence  has  disappeared 
from  every  fiiee.  What  more  can  I  do  to  encourage  these 
men  who  only  understand  ihe  vily  sound  of  gold?  I  see 
other  stars  and  other  poles!  "  Three  days  more,  and  if 
our  hopes  are  vain,  I  surrender  myself  to  you. " 

Here  we  see  flocks  of  birds  rapidly  fly  from  the  West ; 
sea-weeds  and  cleft  from  lands  not  distant.  Land!  land! 
A  panting  cry  breaks  the  etenuil  silence  of  the  sky.  It 
is  the  land!  it  is  the  land!  '  Who  could  now  describe  my 
joy?  A  light  seen  from  afar  in  the  dark  air  gives  strength 
to  the  assured  heart  and  to  the  tired  hand.  Forward! 
forward!  Here  is  the  dawn.  Perhaps  is  my  dream?  No, 
no,  this  is  the  longed-for  laud,  virgin,  beautiful,  dewy— 
beautifullike  a  bride  given  as  a  reward  to  valour,  fair 
and  flowery  like  the  hope  courted  by  me  for  so  many  years. 
See  the  sun  advances;  see  the  land  smiles  with  proud  life! 
Furls  the  sails,  lower  the  boat.  Oh,  beloved  land,  at  last 
I  kiss  thee. 

The  great  work  is  accomplished!  Am  I  not  now  the 
master  of  my  laud  and  of  my  sea?  Where  is  my  royal 
palace?  Where  are  my  camcillors,  my  jewels,  my  crown? 
Ferdinand  where  is  thy  faith? 


St*  ^^afte^^it* 


.,,.>fc/v'i.'.v-a*S«(G*to*?  ■ 


120 

Thou  wa.st  Hiltiii;,'  proud  in  tlio  conqucrrd  Alliiimbrn. 
(iriiiuula  luy  vanquialiea  ut  thy  iwL  A  wunihjrinK  Itiiliaii. 
hurtlonod  hy  thought,  whom  .lUj^uish  hi.d  madc<  Id  heft>rf 
liis  tinio,  leudiiij,'  by  tho  hand  a  liltlo  b»y,  oaiuo  to  thy 
throiu'.  Around  itwcro  i)rin(e«,  lords,  captainn,  and  all 
Spain'rt  ancient  splundur-  What,  powt-rful  king,  on  that 
day  said  tho  unknown  Gonoeso? 

'•  Siro,  "  8ui<l  he,  and  he  spoko  without  trenilding,  "  for- 
tune nuidtj    thco   sovereign  of  Aragon,   love   mudo  thco 
master  of  Castille,  war  gave  thee  the  beautiful  kingdom 
of  the  Moors.     Well  I  will  do  for  thee  more  than  fortune, 
love  and  war  already  have  done,  I  will  give  thee  a  world.  " 
And  then  Oh,  king,  when  from  tho  far  ocean  unexopected 
I  roturnod  and  brought  thee  gold  and  jowola  of  thy   now 
kingdom,  thino  without  a  drop  of  bloodshod,  and   to  thy 
dunifoundod  sagos  and  proud  councillors  haughtily  1  au- 
riwered  with  facts,  showing   the   proofs   of  the   glorious 
achievement;  what  sablst  thou,  Oh  king?  "  Genius  is  tho 
sparkle  of  an  eternal  idea,  and  is  superior  to  every  crown. 
Grandees  of  Spain  off  with  your  hats!  "     Now,  I  am   tho 
same  Columbus.  In  the  gold,  tho  distant  springs  of  which 
I  opened,  Europe  floats,  and  Spain  is  plunged   up  to  the 
neck.     Poor  and  forgotten,  I  beg  my  living,  crust  by  crust, 
and  the  discoverer  of  a  new  world  has  not  a  roof,  nur  a 
house  where  ho  may  die  in  peace. 

Oh,  do  not  toll  my  grand- children  such  au  infamy!  Oh, 
do  not  say  that  these  arms  even  yet  keep  the  marks  of 
chains, and  that,  in  tho  place  of  my  triumph,  I  Uved  a 
prisoner!  Cruel  storyl  Kit  was  fated  that  such  a  re- 
compense should  follow  the  benefit,  God  be  thanked,  that 
I  have  not  done  it  for  Italy. 

It  was  right,  it  was  right;  see  the  beautiful  country 
streaming  with  blood  and  with  massacre.  Of  the  people 
Vfho  butcher,  and  the  people    who   suffer,  which  is  the 


;;:;iH*»?3»^W»it«-*i<l«»t:-.'Mt3'*.*,ri-J>iP...  /:.**».'  ^=f*r^w.**iWi««**t«#-- 


-••J^iff%i^JiAKfrVii^i^iai  #  ■  =t  -i. 


127 


Alhiiml)rr.. 
riiiK  Ittiliaii. 

•lUiio  to  thy 
iiiH,  aiiil  nil 
ing,  oil   thill 

ihlin^',  "  for- 
>   mudo  theo 
Fill  kinf^dom 
hull  fortiuu', 
lee  a  world.  " 
uiioxi'pected 
of  thy  iicnv 
and   to  thy 
iightily  1  aii- 
tho   glorious 
Grenius  is  thu 
every  crown. 
>\v,  I  am   the 
ugs  of  which 
)d  up  to  the 
ruatby  crust, 
I  roof,  nor  a 

infamy!  Oh, 
,he  marks  of 
[)h,  I  lived  a 
at  such  a  re- 
thanked,  that 


savage?  Crime!  crime!  The  sword  is  plunged  into  lh<' 
breast  of  innocent  hrethron,  hut  this  was  not  my  intention 
when  I  undertook  to  guide  you,  ye  wicked!  It  is  not  jxnM 
that  tempts  wicki'dncss,  hut  vice  is  I'ollowe.l  \>y  useless 
offen.-es;  these  faithless  men  have  made  tin-  Cross  a 
pretext  for  butchery,  the  Cross,  law  t)f  eternal  piiy. 

Cease,  yo  cruel  ones,  what  rage  madilens  you?  Is  gold 
not  enough,  that  you  wish  even  for  blood?  And  cannot 
blood  (lueiudi  your  horrible  thirst?  If  this  is  valor  what 
cowardice  be?  Shut  out  from  my  last  moments  this  f  tal 
scene!  Ijct  me  not  see  these  horrors.  Alreaily  ■  '»h 
vengeance  is  moveil,  is  awakened — it  roars—  '.I  full 
first  on  me. 

It  was  right!  it  was  right!  I  bow  my  heii  '.  >'■  \'. 
The  bight  of  thee  is  remorse  to  me.  Thoug'  .1.  m  a'c 
are  accomplices  to  great  disasters!  Thotim^  will  come 
when  on  blood  and  crime  will  rest  the  fMigetfuhiess  01' 
centuries,  and  when  from  this  new  partnersliip  will  come 
to  theuniverse  as  mueli  good  as  formerly  evil  was  produeed, 
then  amidst  far  posterity  my  name  may  be  blessed,  and  a 
reward  of  honor  more  glorious,  becaiiso  longer  delayod, 
may  comfort  my  weary  bones. 

Now  cover  my  face — I  die  in  peace. 

'lazzoletti. 


tiful  country 
Of  the  people 
which  is  the 


■^    -ei*t'  -  •  -ii^if*'^**'®^  »^jis(rt.ydLifc.ii^terf»j.i8i^^  .^.>--'.' 


1-28 
XI. 


THE  PI  RATE'S  SONG. 


I 


I 


TO  A.  s\\unyi,iSan  Francisco,  cal.) 

With  tea  guns  on  eiich  side,  the  wind  right  aft,  and  all 
sails  set,  a  brig  does  not  plow  the  sea,  but  Aief-  T»'« 
pirato  vessel,  for  her  bravery  called  the  "  Feared,  well 
known  \\\  the  water  from  one  shore  to  the  other. 

The  moon  shines  on  the  sea,  amongst  the  sails  sighs 
the  wind,  and  by  a  slight  movement  raises  waves  of  silver 
and  blue.  And  the  pirate  captain,  gaily  singing  on  the 
poop  beholds  Asia  on  one  side,  Europe  on  the  othor  and 
there  before  him  Stambou^. 

"  Sail  on  my  ship  without  fear,  inasmuch  as  no  un- 
friendly sail,  nor  storm,  nor  calm  is  able  t.»  overtake  tliy 
stern  or  to  conquer  thy  vulor.  In  spite  of  the  English  I 
have  taken  twenty  prize3  and  a  hundred  nations  have 
lowered  their  flags  at  my  feet. 

'«Thatmyship  is  my  treasure,  liberty  my  God,  the 
force  and  the  winds  are  my  laws,  and  the  sea  my  only 

fatherland. 

"  Let  blind  kings  move  fiery  wars  belA-eeu  themselves 
for  the  sake  of  a  si)au  of  lan.i,  whilst  here  1  have  for  mine, 
all  that  is  grasped  by  the  wide  sea  to  whom  nobody  has 
dictated  laws.  And  now,  there  is  no  shore,  wherever  it 
be,  nor  a  flag  of  renown  which  has  not  felt  my  right  hand 
and  proclaimed  my  bravery, 

"That  my  ship  is  my  treasure,  etc. 

<'  At  the  cry  of '  Sail,  oh! '  it  is  something  to  see  how  it 
turns  and  takes  measures  to  avoid  every  snare,  inasmuch 
I  am  the  king  of  the  sea,  and  my  anger  is  to  be  feared. 
In  the  prizes.  I  divide  the  booty  equally,  keeping  for  my- 


^^^^j^,;i,^.j,^);,KJ^^,,j(,^^;,^^jy'<:.^,,,iU^         .   i,:;i,V.-fP**«^*r«^*^^ti*5WifejS=iii^^ 


129 


L.) 

ht  aft,  and  all 
lit  flies.  The 
Feared,  "  well 
)ther. 

he  sails  sighs 
waves  of  silver 
iiiging  on  the 
:he   other  and 

i.h    as   no    un- 

i  overtake  thy 

the  English   I 

nations    have 

my  God,   the 
3  sea  my  only 

een  themselves 
have  for  mine, 
m  nobt)dy  lias 
re,  wherever  it 
my  right  hand 


igto  see  how  it 
nare,  inasmuch 
3  to  be  feared, 
ceeping  for  my- 


self only  a  wealth,  beauty  without  rivals. 

"That  my  ship  is  my  treasure,  etc. 

"I  am  sentenced  to  death;  I  laugh  at  it.  Let  fortune 
not  forsake  me  and  regarding  the  one  who  cond.-mnsme, 
perhaps  I  shall  hang  him  tc  the  yard-arm  of  his  own  ship. 
And  if  I  fall?  What  is  life  I  gave  it  up  the  same  day, 
when,  like  a  brave  man,  I  threw  away  from   me  the   yoke 

of  a  slave. 

"  That  my  ship  is  my  treasure,  etc. 

"  My  best  music  is  the  northern  wind,  the  trembling 
and  noise  of  grating  cables,  the  roar  of  the  blackened  sea 
and  the  thunder  of  my  guns,  and  amid  the  violent  dim 
of  the  thunderbolts,  mid  the  howhng  wind,  I  sleep  calm, 
lulled  by  the  sea.  " 

Don  Jose  dc  Rsproncedii. 


jsi:li«aJii»fae™S«3ii!f^i5i«4j. 


^       «iBisL.w-=*:*S^;^: 


130 
XII. 


CHARITY. 

TO  BKV.  1).  .1-  MACDONELL. 


-8i.  • 
I 


When  the  pining  flower  that  summer  causes  to  fade 
leans  toward  the  burning  soil  to  die,  and  to  quench  th. 
lire  by  which  it  is  devoured,  asks  and  begs  only  a  drop  ot 
water;  without  rain  or  dew  this  dying  complaint  falls 
with  the  wind's  breath. 

So  when  the  unhappy  being  drags  himself  along,  bent 
from  the  cradle  under  troubles,  oppressed  by  his  burden, 
if  the  arm  of  his  brother  does  not  support  his  misery,  it 
some  sweet  voice  does  not  speak  a  word  which  raises  and 
comforts  him,  he  must  fall  under  its  weight. 

Oh,  sublime  charity,  balm  of  grief,  thou  whose  siglit 
inspires  courage,  thou  who  driest  tears;  beloved  daughter 
of  God!  Pain  and  bitter  complaint  are  silent  before  theo; 
peace  is  in  thy  mouth,  and  those  touched  by  thy  hand 
suddenly  lose  their  fears.  .    ,      , 

He  who  lost  in  doubt  and  in  despair  has  long  ago  stray- 
ed  from  the  right  path,  by  thee  is  brought  repentant  to 
God  whom  he  had  forgotten,  and  thou  restorest  hope  lu 

him  who  hope  no  more. 

Oh.  Supreme  Majesty,  thy  sovereign  order  has  said: 
'« Love  thy  neigbor  as  thyself. "  The  man  only  to  whoui 
misery  never  is  troublesome  is  just  in  thine  eyes.  If  in 
heart  he  U  poor,  by  the  good  actions  he  has  done,  ho  will 

become  rich  in  heaven. 

A.  Richard. 


fr,i  -■!^i?'fei-''B«SJ- 


t':t.^J:'.-'  .■^^r^•"-^C?-^^^'*^^:^■"f■^^^T^'^f*' -■.•"''•*■' -•""^'^'  -''■^■^' 


131 
XIII. 

WHY  LOVEST  THOU  MK? 


luses  to  fade 
1  quench  tht- 
)nly  a  drop  ol" 
inplaint   falls 

f  along,  bent 
y  his  burden, 
lis  misery,  if 
ich  raises  and 
t. 

whose  sight 
)ved  daughter 
t  before  theo; 
by   thy  haml 

ong  ago  stray- 
repentant  to 
oresi  hope  iu 

der  has  said: 
only  to  whom 
,e  eyes.  If  in 
I  done,  ho  will 


TO  C.  IJAHSOTTI,   M.    D. 
I. 

Why  lovest  thou  me  young  girl?  Dost  thou  know  mOjo 
I  am?  A  young  poet  who  always  runs  in  the  same  road 
amongst  thorns  and  fluvvers,  and  never  arrives  at  the 
goal.  The  poor  poet  i.s  a  butterfly,  and,  like  tliis  one, 
loves  the  pictured  flower  beds,  and  now  rising  uj),  then 
down,  plays  with  the  breeze  and  search  the  sun  and 
the  flowers. 

The  little  butterfly  is  happy  with  a  few  drops  and  with 
a  little  fragrance;  a  drop  of  dew  quenches  its  thirst,  arose 
leaf  is  its  room. 

Often  foreign  to  what  it  hears  or  sees,  it  is  pleased  with 
its  golden  wings  and  flowers,  contented  with  the  virtue 
God  gave  it,  thus  passing  its  life  in  peace. 

The  lion  passes,  the  king  of  the  forest,  and  seeing  it 
going  from  flower  to  flower,  "This  is  the  happiest  one," 
says  he,  "  that  flying,  passes  the  time  in  making  love.  " 

The  fox  passes,  busy  with  its  cunning,  and  scoffs  Ht  the 
sincere  butterfly,  which  without  any  snare  or  any  offence, 
goes  flying  alone,  always  alone. 

The  magpie  passes,  deafening  the  valley,  the  magpie 
always  slanderous  and  brating.  The  screech-owl  passes, 
found  of  ruins,  enemy  of  love  and  peace.  . 

But  the  butterfly,  which  is  born  for  other  purfioses, 
passing,  does  not  look  at  them,  and  does  not  care  for  them, 
and  always  flies,  and  it  is  always  in  love,  such  as  naturt; 
made  it. 


^■^    .^^^£^^"  jei>^'*^*»e^$t&^-^ 


lo2 
II. 

With  a  few  drops,  with  few  perfumes,  the  poor  poet  also 
nourishes  himself.  Amongst  the  flowers  of  his  hopes,  he 
too  is  a  happv  and  nimble  butterfly. 

He  opens  the  little  window  at  the  first  dawn,  and  sing- 
ing, he  salutes  tbe  ri.sing  sun.  The  bree/.e  repeats  his 
verses  of  love   and  the  heart  of  any  who  listeu  to   him 

trembles.  . 

Near  the  setting  of  the  sun  he  moans  and  cries,  and  he 
recites  the  verges  thou  singest;  they  are  the  songs  of  his 
mountains,  those  songs  which  he  never  forgets. 

The  note  of  that  sweet  song  trembles  as  the  flower  of 
the  land  which  gave  him  birth.  There  is  the  word,  there 
i.s  the  laugh,  the  weep,  there  are  the  eyes  and  the  lips 
of  his  girl. 

III. 

Like  prophetic  birds  his  verses  go  from  sea  to  sea,  from 
bind  to  land.     Diff"erent  people  repeat  them  in  the  time 

of  peace  and  war. 

The  poet  is  poor,  and  every  one  says  so;  but  he  has  a 
heart  as  great  and  as  deep  as  the  sea,  and  to  lock  at  him 
he  seems  the  happiest  and  the  richest  man  in  this  world. 

So  very  pooi-;  and  so  very  rich,  he  passes  among  the 
people  humble  and  proud,  and  through  his  fatal  journey 
ho  tires  the  light  of  free  thought. 

And  he  who  meets  him  looks  at  him  and  greets  him 
with  the  most  beautiful  name  that  resounds  in  the  world, 
and  that  name  which  the  world  gives  him  is  the  prettiest 
ornanient  of  his  wreath. 

Glances,  smiles  and  courteous  receptions  are  not  denied 
to  him,  and  he  smiles  to  all;  but  believe  me,  my  Lina, 
these  are  his  only  joy,  these  his  only  fruits.     And  these 


t  St-ii!«S*i,,A*fe..'^t! 


loor  poet  also 
his  hopes,  he 

vn,  and  sing- 
e  repeats  his 
isten  to   him 

cries,  and  he 
songs  of  his 
;ets. 

the  flower  of 
le  word,  there 
and   the  lips 


ea  to  sea,  from 
L  in  the  time 

but  he  has  a 
>  look  at  him 
in  this  world. 
S3  among  the 
i  fatal  journey 

id  greets  him 
J  in  the  world, 
is  the  prettiest 

are  not  denied 
me,  my  Lina, 
;8.     And  these 


fruits  will  not  be  envied  by  the  animals  of  shrewd  and 
doubtful  faith,  Rcreech-owls,  foxes  and  lions,  because  they 
know,  too  well  they  know,  that  the  little  butterfly,  does 
not  desire  anything  else. 

IV. 

Yes,  I  too,  oh!  Lina,  am  like  the  butterfly,  I  that  in 
every  road  am  searching  for  flowers:  my  amorous  soul 
runs  after  that  desire  which  drags  it. 

It  runs  from  morning  to  evening,  and  itself,  poor  thing, 
does  not  know  why  it  runs,  and  the  more  it  pricks  itsdt" 
the  more  approaches  to  those  roses  which  desire  colorn. 
And  believes  to  suck  in  the  lap  of  all  the  flowers  drops  dC 
ambrosia  to  sweeten  the  song;  but  often,  my  Lina,  thos(t 
sweet  humors  are  only  drops  of  liis  own  weeping. 

Yes,  butterfly  I  am,  my  Lina,  and  the  native  clod  is 
generous  of  a  hi'.iulred  flowers;  but  these  are  perfum<H, 
and  the  wiud  wafts  them,  the  favors  of  my  native  land. 

V. 

Now  thou  knowest  who  I  am,  and  I  do  not  under8tan<l 
how  thou,  my  girl,  lovest  me  so  much.  Is  it  my  poor 
name  that  is  dear  to  thee,  or  perhaps  is  my  plaintive  song? 
But  name  and  song  shall  pass;  my  poor  verses  are  flowers, 
and  thou  well  knowest  it,  that  the  sweetest  odor  of  the 
prettiest  flower  does  not  live  longer  than  a  day. 

And  then  dost  thou  not  see  how  much  harmony  of  life 
and  love  there  is  around  us?  Dost  thou  not  see  how  in 
the  same  day  this  universe  almost  is  born  and  dies? 
And  perhaps  there  where  now  life  dai  res,  death  shall 
raise  her  black  tents,  and  the  people  of  ■  ee  hope  may  be 
a  heap  of  bones  and  bands. 

And  those  roses,  where  now  the  nightingales  warble 
perhaps  shall  be  turned  into  sprigs    and    amongst   them 


u^t,- **«»t;  .'ir  S.iiSii 


104 

there  ahull  only  be  hoard  the  sharp  hissing  of  savage  snakes. 
And  perhaps  here  where  I  am  singing  of  affection,  and 
where  so  many  others  also  will  sing,  this  thy  little  blessed 
village,  which  completely  enraptures  me  with  its  beauties, 
shall  be  changed  into  wood,  and  every  thicket  will  give  a 
volume  of  doubtful  stories,  and  the  crow's  song  shall  be 
heard,  the  old  sybil  of  the  desert. 

VI. 

All  falls  and  rises  again,  and  everybody  perceives  this, 
but  love,  love,  Lina,  does  not  die;  his  seat  is  in  our  soul. 
Everlastiirg  as  the  soul  is  love. 

And  thy  love  shall  never  change  its  intensity;  that  is 
what  I  only  wi.sh  from  thee.  Of  love,  only  of  love,  speak 
always  to  me,  inasmuch  as  ho  who  speaks  of  love  speaks 

of  God. 

With  the  elegance  of  a  nod  and  a  smile,  thou  awakest 
in  m  ;  sweet  and  new  poetry.  Through  thy  pretty  blue 
eyes,  truly  it  seems  to  me,  I  see  Paradise. 

G.  A.  Costanso. 


r.:i?.sSJ!61iS3E3!3isS, 


i?iy'i^i&»:*^iKa^'tfW;i««t:k^Ao^*&45*^'-'*a«*J5'***-3e*^*-*««^^ 


T 


lavage  snakes, 
affection,  antl 
|r  little  blessed 
h  its  beauties, 
cet  will  give  a 
song  shall  be 


)erceives  this, 
i  in  our  soul. 

ensity;  that  is 

of  love, speak 

of  love  speaks 

thou   awakest 
y   pretty  blue 


135 

XIV. 

POORBAIIDI 

TO  L.  STKCCIIKTTr. 

Ah  a  child  in  thy  presence  I  lower- 
ed my  eyes,  I  cowered  at  thy  knees 
as  fawningly  as  u  whipped  spaniel. 
With  my  proud  forehead  bent  I 
kisHed  the  hem  of  thy  garment.  I 
suffered,  I  cursed,  I  cried  and  thou 
laughedest. 

Now  I  rise  from  my  cowardly  ba- 
seness, and  break  uiy  chains,  I  feel 
ashamed  of  me  and  my  love ,  I  rise, 
and  1  despise  thee. 

sTECOiiETTi,  (Anger.) 

Poor  poet!  in  what  proud  remorse  of  past  cowardice  con- 
sumest  thou  thyself?  Tliou  risest  and  insultcst,  and  I 
hardly  say,  if  thou  wert  more  coward  then,  or  less  proud 
now.  Thou  risest  and  insultest.  Ah!  do  not  repeat  the 
insult  which  so  imprudently  came  out  from  thy  heart! 
This  is  not  pride,  it  is  not  courage,  it  is  not  freedom  .... 
on  my  word  it  is  love! 

Behold  with  what  i>ai\i  and  blind  rage  thou  throwest 
mud  on  the  once  Avorshipped  idol!  How  bleeds  the  heart 
which  13  cursing!  Cease  thy  scoffing.  Woe  if  she  hear 
the  sound  of  thy  scoffs,  woe  if  she  sees  thee!  To-morrow 
on  going  again  to  kiso  her  foot,  perhaps  thou  shall  pay 
dear  for  her  forgiveness. 

If  thou  art  a  poet  do  not  insult  the  sacred  flame  which 
lightened  thy  heart  if  it  dictated  to  thy  dust  a  single  poem 
and  gave  a  single  spark  to  thy  grief. 

Do  not  insult  her,  do  not  cry  out  that  the  desire  for 


ft*,¥iS--t*^^il'ii''^'*'J^^^ 


Kiit  i-'a  »»*!■*■'•  ■='tJ  .\j-»'  y,i  'ilt^^Wi---  Holfe.  I ',  St^i^UciS^i  -=.- ' 


13G 

•'  vile  mud  "  enflamed  thee.  Wretched  one,  how  shalt 
thou  SJiy  to  the  world  "  of  that  mud  I  hud  mnde  a  God.  " 
Ah  !  do  not  Bpeak  of  tills  dreuin  whicli  is  fixt'(l  in  thy 
heurt,  Oh,  do  not  soil  that  shadow.  In  order  to  possess 
that  right  thou  oughtest  have  never  placed  her  on  the  altar. 
Until  from  thine  eye  and  from  thy  suffering  spirit  shall 
come  but  a  single  tear,  respect  the  dreum  which  opened 
an  heaven  for  thee,  respect  the  mud  which  inspired  thee 
with  a  song. 

If  truly  thou  art  now  strong  and  free,  if  thy  insults  are 
born  from  a  redeemed  heart,  I  offer  thee  another  trial. 
Go  to  her,  gaze  on  her  face,  without  moving  an  eye. 
Defy  the  old  power  of  her  eyes  without  experiencing 
a  chill  in  thy  veins.  Look  at  her  face  without  desire  or 
anger,  without  scorn  or  hope.  And  try  to  breathe  without 
shock  in  the  wake  of  her  hidden  perfumes.  Approach 
her,  touch  one  of  her  hands  without  feeling  a  shudder  iu 
thy  bones. 

And  when  the  heart  shall  no  more  give  thee  a  shudder, 
a  tear  or  an  oath,  poor  poet,  oh,  then,  only  then,  thou 
canst  boast  of  having  conquered  love- 
No!  this  roar  of  rage  is  not  the  comfort  thou  are  search- 
ing for.  Poor  poet!  Thou  shalt  not  be  cured  except  on 
the  day  thou  shalt  forgive. 

F.  Cavallotti. 


~i^^o?*^^5^^^^5S^W     ::sfU^KSJS;^52!^^^Eia5SC5SC^vJi?SEM&6fiW54SS3N^ 


[>,  how  shalt 
lule  n  God.  " 
fixed  ill  thy 
jr  to  possess 
r  on  the  altar, 
ig  spirit  shall 
hich  opened 
nspired  thee 

:iy  insults  are 
mother  trial, 
ving  an  eye- 
experiencing 
out  desire  or 
•eathe  without 
!3.  Approach 
;  a  shudder  in 

liee  a  shudder, 
ly  then,  thou 

louare  search- 
red  except  oa 

llotti. 


-i 


i;;7 
XV 


ITOrKINCOD. 


TO  .1.  DUNKiKLn,  M.  ii.{Cttna<ia.) 

As  long  as  n>y  fcohlo  heart,  yet  full  of  youth,  shall  not 
have  hid  farewell  to  his  Inst  illusions,  I  avouM  ahido  hy 
the  old  wisdom  which  has  niado  a  deiui-god  of  the  soher 
Epicurus.  I  would  live,  love,  accustom  myself  to  my 
equals,  go  in  search  of  joy  witlumt  relying  upon  it,  d<» 
what  has  heen  done,  be  what  I  am,  and  carelessly  lifi  my 
eyes  to  heaven. 

It  is  impossible.  Infinity  torments  mc  In  spile  of 
myself  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  fear  or  hope,  and  not- 
withstanding all  what  has  been  said,  my  reason  is  fri^dit- 
ened  at  seeing  it,  and  not  being  capable  of  understanding 
it.  What  is  tills  world?  and  what  we  come  to  do  in  it,  if 
to  live  in  peace,  it  is  necessary  to  veil  heaven?  To  pass 
like  sheep  with  our  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  and  to  for- 
sake  all  else,  can  that  be  called  happiness?  No,  it  is  to 
cease  to  be  a  man,  and  degrades  the  soul.  Chance  has 
put  me  in  the  world.  Happy  t.r  unhai-py,  I  am  born  of 
a  woman,  and  I  cannot  throw  of  humanity. 

What  can  I  do  then?  "Be  merry,"  says  paganism, 
"bo  merry  and  die."  "Hope"  answers  Christianity, 
heaven  always  watches,  and  thou  canst  not  die.  " 

Between  these  two  roads  I  hesitate.  I  would  wish  to 
follow  a  more  easy  path,  but  a  secret  voice  tells  me  that 
with  regard  to  heaven  one  must  believe  or  deny.  This 
is  my  opinion  too.  Tortured  souls  cast  themselves,  some- 
times  into  one,  soraetiuies  into  the  other,  of  these  two 
extremes.  The  indifferent  are  atheists,— if  they  would 
, doubt  only  for  a  day,  they  could  not  sleep.  I  yield,  and 
as  the  matter  leaves  in  my  heart  a  desire  full  of  dread,  I 


138 

will  bend  my  kuces,  T  wIbIi  to  believe  and  to  l»opo. 

Iloro  I  iiMi  in  tbe  bands  of  a  God  more  dreadful  tban 
all  evils  of  this  world  put  to{j:ctlicr.  Hero  I  am  alone  u 
wandering,  weak  and  miserable  creature  boncatb  tbe  eyo 
of  u  witness  wbo  leaves  me  not.  He  watcbes  me,  be 
follows  me.  If  my  boart  beats  too  quick  I  offend  bis 
<lignity  and  bis  divinity.  A  precipice  is  opened  under 
my  steps.  If  I  fall  into  it  to  expiate  an  bour,  an  eternity  is 
needed.  My  judge  is  a  tyrant  wbo  daceives  bis  victim.  For 
me  everytbing  becomes  a  snare  and  cbanges  its  name. 
Love  becomes  a  sin,  bappiness  a  crime,  and  all  tbe  world 
is  for  me  a  continuous  temptation.  I  bave  notbing  more 
of  bumanity  about  me.  I  await  tbe  recompense,  I  try  to 
avoid  tbe  punisbment;  fear  is  my  guide,  and  deatb  is 
my  only  aim. 

Nevertbeless,  it  is  said  that  an  infinite  joy  will  be  tbe 
sbare  of  some  elect.  Wbo  are  tbose  bappy  beings?  If 
tbou  bast  deceived  me,  wilt  tbou  again  give  me  life?  If 
thou  bast  told  me  tbe  truth,  wilt  tbou  oj.'>n  the  heavens? 

AlasI  this  beautiful  country,  i)romised  by  thy  j)rophets, 
if  it  really  exists,  must  be  a  desert.  Thou  requirest  those 
choosen  ones  to  be  too  pure,  and  when  this  bappiness 
arrives  they  aiieady  bave  suffered  too  much.  1  am  a  man, 
and  I  will  no.  be  less,  nor  attempt  more.  Where  should 
I  stop?  If  I  cannot  believe  in  tbe  priest's  promises  shall 
I  consult  those  who  are  indifferent? 

If  my  heart,  wearied  by  the  dream  which  troubles  it, 
returns  again  to  reality  for  consolation,  at  the  bottom  of 
tbe  vain  pleasures  called  into  my  aid  I  find  a  disgust  that 
kiUrt  me.  In  the  same  day  in  which  my  thoughts  are  im- 
pious, in  which  to  end  my  doubts  I  wish  to  deny,  even 
though  I  possessed  all  that  a  man  could  desire,  power 
health,  wealth,  love,  tbe  only  blessing  of  this  world,  though 
tbe  fair  Astartft  worshipped  by  Greece  should  come  from 


■/rt*^  -:->-.^^^7.^%iVi'iJ.i<.S<U*--S'i 


^^^-mi  ^  ^  .^:bhU.bK::«jM.Ui2u. 


t^jtfuwilfe^in&us^e^^^J^^JsMMVt^  -^'^i& 


0  Ijopo. 
Ireadful    than 
[   am  alone  ti 
ncatli  the  eye 
itches  me,   he 

I  offend  his 
opened  under 
,  an  eternity  is 
i3  victim.  For 
iges  it8   name. 

1  all  the  world 
nothing  more 
pense,  I  try  to 

and   death   ia 

V  will  be  the 
;  beings?  If 
e  me  life?  If 
.  the  heavens? 
■  thy  ))rophets, 
requi rest  those 
his  hapi^iness 
1.  I  am  a  man, 
"Where  should 
promises  shall 

!h  troubles  it, 
the  bottom  of 
a  disgust  that 
oughts  are  im- 
to  deny,  even 
desire,  power 
world,  though 
lid  come  from 


r 


\:v.) 

the  azure  islands,  and  hIiouM  open  lu-r  anus,  though  1 
could  come  into  possession  of  the  secret  of  the  earth's 
fertility,  and  thus  changing  at  my  fancy  living  matter, 
create  a  beauty  for  myself  alone,  though  Horace,  Lucre- 
tius and  old  Epicurus  seated  near  me,  should  call  me 
happy,  and  those  great  lovers  of  nature  should  sing  the 
l)raise3  of  pleasures,  and  the  contempt  of  the  gods,  I  would 
say  to  all,  "In  spite  of  our  efforts  I  suffer,  it  is  too  late, 
the  world  has  become  old,  an  infinite  hope  has  crossed 
Ihe  earth,  and  against  our  will,  we  must  raise  our  eyes 
to  heaven." 

What  else  remains  to  mo  to  try.  Vainly  my  reason 
tries  to  believe,  and  my  heart  to  doubt.  Tho  christian 
ad'rights  mo,  and  in  spite  of  my  senses  I  cannot  listen  to 
what  the  atheist  says  to  me.  True  religious  people  will 
cull  me  an  impious,  the  indifferent  will  call  me  r  fool. 
To  whom  shall  I  address  myself,  and  what  friendly  voice 
will  comfort  my  heart  wounded  by  doubt? 

It  is  said  that  there  exists  a  philosophy  which  can 
explain  everything  without  revelation.  Granted.  Where 
are  those  makers  of  systems  who,  without  faith  know  how 
to  find  the  truth?  Weak  sophists,  who  believe  only  in 
themselves,  what  are  their  arguments,  what  th<Mr  autho- 
rities? One  shows  me,  here  below,  two  principles  at  war, 
which  alternatively  conquered,  are  both  everla8ting.(l) 
Another,  far  away  in  the  desert  heaven  discovers  a  useless 
God  Who  will  have  no  altar.(2)  I  see  Plato  dreaming, 
and  Aristotle  thinking.  I  hear  them,  I  praise  them,  but 
I  pursue  my  way.  Under  absolute  kings  I  find  a  despot 
God,  now  they  spoke  to  us  of  a  republican  God;  Pythagoras 
and  Leibnitz  transfigure  my  being.  Descartes  leaves  me 
perplexed.  Montaigne,  after  great  examination  cannot 
understand  himself.     Pascal  trembling  tries  to  escape  his 


(,!•  -Manicbeans. 


(2)  Theisui. 


wf^A-rSiSH^-'  ^<«&K^< 


-^=^T^&fttig,X»X^ 


ow'u  visions.  Tyrr.)  bliii.ls  me  uml  Zeuo  mukc'9  m«  in- 
aensiblo.  Vultuiro  thr.)\v«  down  all  lie  socs  stun.] in;,'. 
Spiuosatirodc.f  trying  the  ii.ipodsible,  vainly  soarchin- 
for  his  God,  ends  by  seeing  him  ovorywhere.  Willi  tho 
English  sophist,  (1)  man  is  a  machine,  finally,  out  of  tho 
fogs  cornea  a  Gorman  rh.'torician,  (2)  who,  finishing  tho 
ruin  of  philosophy,  declares  Heaven  emi.ty  an.l  proves 

that  there  is  nothing. 

Hero  are  the  wrecks  of  human  science!  and   after    live 

thousand  years  coulinually  doubting,  after   sueh  a  great 

and  persevering  work,  behold    there   tho   last    result   at 

which  we  have  arrived.     Poor,  foolish,  miserable  brai'^s, 

who  have  explained  all  in  sueh   different  ways,    to   rduch 

Heaven  you  need  wings.     You  had  the  desire,  but  faith 

was  not  with  you.     I  pity  you;  your  pride  came  from  a 

wounded  soul;  you  have  felt  the  pangs  of  which  my  heart 

is  filled,  and  you  well   knew    this   bluer   thought  which 

makes  man  tremble  whenever  he  considers  infinity.    Well 

come  on,  let  us  pray  together,  let  us  abjure  the  misery  of 

our  childish  calculations,  of  such  vain  worji.     Now  tnat 

your  bodies  are  dust  I  will  i.ray  for  you  on  your   gravec. 

Come  pagan  rhetoricians,  masters  of  sciences,  christians 

of  old  times,  and  thinkers  of  the  present  age,  believe  me, 

prayer  is  a  cry  of  hope.     Let  us  ourselves  address  to  (}o<l. 

He  is  good,  without  doubt.  Hi  forgives  you.  All  you  have 

suffered  is  forgotten.     If   Heaven   is  a  desert,   we    shall 

offend  nobody,  if  there  is  Que  Who   hears   us,   may   He 

^pity  us.  ■    ,         ->;■  \,"^      •■•■-'■ 

■     PRAYER. 

Oh,  Thou,  Whom  nobody  has  been  able  to  know,'  and 
whom  none  has  denied  without  lying,  answer  us.  Thou 
Who  hast  niade  me,  and   to-morrow  shalt  make  mo    die. 


(1 )  Locke. 


(Ll  Uiint. 


.  ^Av=.,^*^^ii'-«iiH*--s7-^Ji»i-(^i^JSNSai'i*i*?Su  ^4fe' 


T 


luikcs  mt)  in- 
009  Htuinliiig. 
ily  sourchin'4 
8.  With  tho 
Ily,  out  of  tho 
fmi.shiiij;  thn 
y  ttud   proves 

ml   lifter    livo 

sufh  a  great 
lust  result  at 
erable  brai'is, 
iiys,  to  rdueh 
lire,  but   fuitU 

came  from  u 
hich  my  heart 
hou<;ht  which 
iuliuity.    Well 

the  misery  of 
•y.  Now  ti\at 
I  your  grttvei\ 
ices,  christians 
re,  believe  me, 
.ildress  to  (iod, 
I.  All  you  have 
sert,    we    shall 

us,   may   llo 


to  know,'  and 

WOT  us.     Thou 

make  me    die. 


141 

Since  Thou  lettest   us   to  understand  then,  why,    m.ik,-st 
thou  people  doubt  thee?     Wliat  siid   pleasure  canst   thou 
feel  in  templing  our  good  faith?     As  soon  as  a  man  raises 
his  head  he  thinks  that  ho  sees  thee  in  heaven:  llio  crea- 
lion,  his  conquest,  in  his  eyes  is  only  a  vast  toniph«.     Ah 
soon  as  ho  descends  into  his  inward  he  finds  Thee.     Thou 
Lvest  in  him.     If  he  sutlers,  weeps  or  loves,  it  is  his  God 
Who  has  so  willed.     The   noblest   intelligence,   the   most 
sublime  ambition  is  to  prove  Thy  existence  and  in  teach- 
in  '   Thy  name.      Whatever   i-i    the    name    given    Thee, 
liruhma,  .Jupiter,  Jesus,  True    I'.ternal   .Iiistiee,  all   arms 
are  extended  to  Thoe.     The  hist  of  the  soub  of   the  earth 
thanks  thee    from  his  heart  as  soon  as  to  his   misery  is 
uiLxed  u  simple  appearance  of  happiness.     All  the    world 
glorifies  Thee;  the  bird  from  his  ner,t  sings  to  Thee;    and 
thousands   of  beings    have    blesse.l    Theo    for  a  drop  of 
rain.     Nothing  has  been  done  by  Thoe  that  is  not  admir- 
ed;  none  of  thy  gifts  is  lost  to  us;  and  Thou  cannot   smil- 
est  without  we  fall  on  our  knees  before  Thee.    Why  then 
Supreme  Master,  hast  thon-reatcd  evil  so  groat  that  reason 
and  even  virtue   tremble  at  its  sight?     Whilst   so   many 
things  in  the  world  proclaim  tho  divinity,  and  seem  to  be 
witnesses  of  the  love,  power  and  kindness  of  a  father;  how 
is  it  that  under  the  holy  sky  are  seen  actions  so  shocking 
as  to  check  the  prayer  on  the  lips  ot  the  unhappy?     How 
is  it  that  in  Thy  divine  handiwork  are  so  many  elements 
not  in  harmony?     To  what  good  are  pestilence  and  crime? 
•Just  God,  why  death?     Thy  pity  must  have  been  great 
when  with  all  its  good  and  evil  this  marvelous  and  beau- 
tiful  world,   crying,  emerged  from  Chaos!     Since  Thou 
w.uldst    submit  it  to  the  pains  of  which  is   replenished 
Thou  oughtest  not  to  have  permitted  it  to   discern  Thee. 
Why  lettest  Thou  our  misery  see  and  guess  at  a  God? 
Doubt  has  brought  desolation  on  the  earth.     We  see  too 


ili^V£>^^^^«i  <-;-^u*(.v; 


much  or  too  little.  If  Thy  creature  is  unworthy  to  ap- 
proach Thee,  Thou  oughtest  let  nature  veil  and  hide 
Thee.  Thy  power  would  have  been  left  to  Thee,  and  w<' 
chould  have  felt  its  blows;  but  quiet  and  ignorance  would 
have  lessened  our  griefs. 

If  our  afflictions  ar.d  pain-,  reach  not  to  Thy  majesty, 
keep  Thy  solitary  grandeur,  shut  forever  Thy  immensity; 
but  if  our  mortal  griefs  can  reaeh  to  Thee,  and  from  the 
eternal  plains,  Thou  hearest  our  sighs,  break  the  deep 
vaults  which  covers  creation,  lift  this  world's  veil,  and 
show  thyself  a  just  and  good  God.  Tliou  wilt  see  all  over 
this  earth  an  ardent  love  of  faith,  and  the  whole  maukin<l 
will  fall  down  before  Thee.  The  tears  which  flow  from 
men's  eyes  as  a  light  dew  will  disappear  in  heaven.  Thou 
shalt  hear  only  Thy  praises,  and  a  concert  of  joy  and  love 
like  that  with  which  the  Angela  gladden  Thy  everlasting 
kingdom,  and  in  this  supreme  hosanna,  Thou  shalt  see 
at  the  sound  of  our  songs,  doubt  and  blasphemy  fly  away, 
whilst  death  itself  will  join  its  last  accents  to  them. 

A.  t/t'  Musset, 


ivorthy  to  ap- 
^eil  and  hi<ie 
rhee,  and  w<' 
lorance  would 

Thy  niajestyj 
ly  iiniiiensity ; 
and  from  the 
eak  the  deep 
Id's  veil,  and 
ilt  see  all  over 
hole  maukin<l 
3h  flow  from 
heaven.  Thou 
f  joy  and  love 
y  everlasting 
liou  shalt  see 
eray  fly  away, 
D  them. 

usset. 


143 
XVI. 

THE  COAT. 

iO  ANGICLO  NICCOLAI,(A«mr.) 


Thou  reproachest  me,  Francis,  and  thou  .sayest  that  I 
forget  my  old  friends.  If,  as  before,  poetry  gives  sweet 
food  to  thy  beautiful  soul,  read  my  coat,  an<l  see  if  I  can 
forget  you,  when  I  keep  remembrance  even  of  a  very  old 
worn-out  coat.  No,  while  a  drop  of  blood  runs  in  my 
veins,  I  would  that  we  remain,  "  two  souls  with  a  single 
thought,  two  hearts  beating  in  one.  " 

TO  MY  COAT. 

JOKE. 

My  poor  coat,  my  sweet  friend,  it  is  true,  thou  art  ragg. 
ed,  it  is  true,  thou  art  old,  but  in  happy  as  in  hard  times 
I  had  thee,  an  inseparable  companion,  and,  remembering 
thee  I  love  thee,  nor  I  cast  thee  from  me. 
.  Let  those  who,  fond  of  change,  follow  the  fashion  and 
let  them  admire  my  constancy.  By  experience,  1  have 
learned  that,  in  this  century,  dress  is  everything. 

Look  at  that  nobleman,  who  upon  his  coat  wears  sewn 
a  silk  ribbon?  If  thou  take  off  the  dress,  who,  by  his 
manners  would  honor  him  as  a  knight?  Where  are  his 
grace  and  amiability?  Where  is  the  old  time  elegant 
bearing?  Formerly  it  was  the  usage  to  protect  oppressed 
ladies,  now  one  strikes  even  his  own  wife. 

Another  is  angi«y  and  raises  row  if  people  do  not  call 
him  doctor.  But  could  he  be  known  as  such  without  his 
gown?  The  ignoble  crowd,  wouldstthou  believe?  humbles 
itsel  f,  bends,  to  whom? — to  a  robe.  Like  the  donkey,  who 
was  carrying  the  beautous  imago  of  Cytherea,  while   the 


IB 


144 

frightened  beast  was  passing,  the  people  filled  with  devo- 

tion  used  to  bow. 

Oh,  my  very  dear  coat,  never  did  I  wear  thee  out  of 
vanity,  nor  ever  for  debts  wast  thou  pulled  off,  for  even 
thou  art  ragged,  I  have  paid  for  thee,  with  the  honest 
fruit  of  niy^sweat,  iiiasmuch  as  a  noble  soul  is  unused  to 
sell  an  object  of  affection,  but  he  has  not  the  usual  luck 
to  find  some  one  who  pays  clothes  for  him. 

Under  the  sleeves  one  may  see  the  threads,  but  that 
recalls  me  mv  glory,  because  I  wore  it  when  I,  under  the 
influence  of  poetical  fire,  was  writing  the  Nasc  for   you, 

niv  ladies. 

Look,  the  collar,  is  already  worn  out  on  account  of  my 
turning  h(>re  and  there,  and  yet,  it  brings  me  no  grief  nor 
pain,  but  it  is  my  tender  keepsake,  because  I  do  re  mem- 
^,er  those  joyous  days  in  which   I    felt   in   love   with   a 

vouiig  girl. 

Often  when  sitting  between  motiier   '-.v\  daughter,    for 

tho  sake  of  propriety,  using  the  m^  -  o  ep  and  subtle 
policy,  I  w:.3  convening  now  wiih  th.  .ue,  now  with  the 
other  But  when  speaking  to  the  young  one  low  in  her 
ear, the  cnning  old  lady  would  say,  "What'  that? "(with 
her  elbow  nudging  mine,)  and  I  would  answer,  "Oh,  no- 
thing"  and  address  myself  to  the  girl,  that  everlasting 
turnint'  of  my  head  was  for  my  collar  a  great  misfortune, 
and  yet  it  does  not  grieve  or  pain  me,  it  is  the  tenderast 
of  my  recollections.  vi      * 

When  I  am  sitting  near  to  ladies,  I  cannot  act  like  a 
statue,  I  am  arktinoI  I  like  to  speak,  and  I  like  to  look, 
and  Hike  to  move  as  much  as  I  choose,  and,  if  my  collar 
must  suffer  on  account  of  it,  cannot  be  helped,  the  collar 
will  have  to  be  renowned. 

Here  where  the  coat  meets  near  the  stomach  a  button 
is  missing.     Of  ten  which  were,  now  there  remained  nine, 


-  =fS4'iJsi!Steil«?S«Sa«E^- 


lied  with  devo- 
ir thee  out  of 
1  off,  for  even 
rith  the  honest 
il  is  unused  to 
the  usual  luck 
1. 

reads,  but  that 

Bu  I,  under  the 

Nasc  for   you, 

account  of  my 
me  no  grief  nor 
le  I  do  remem- 
n   love   with   a 

\  daughter,  for 
ep  and  subtle 
I,  now  with  the 
one  low  in  her 
lat'  that? "(with 
iiswer,  "Oh,  no- 
that  everlasting 
reat  misfortune, 
is  the  tenderast 

mnot  act  like  a 
id  I  like  to  look, 
and,  if  niy  collar 
elped,  the  collar 

omach  a  button 
•e  remained  nine, 


ALICE     DE    CHAMBRIER 


L     . 


^attfcaiM^ig^/»UaWitt.»  (k^a^ii''  Pim  iLk.ii^tgkU 


iimm^Hfiiaitiiii^'n. , 


M5 

your  number,  daughters  of  Jupiter.  Wiinting  some  money, 
often  I  put  my  hands  into  the  pockets,  but  in  vain  and 
yet  that  deficit  iIogb  not  grieve  me,  but  all  the  more  awakens 
the  old  vein,  so  that  in  my  mind,  I  change  my  pamphlets 
into  money. 

Oh,  how  delightful  to  be  a  poet!  All  subscribe  for 
friendship  and  all  pay,  how  deligliLiulI  Tlien  my  ragged 
old  coat,  my  ever  faithful  companion  and  friend,  who 
with  me  wast  in  great  Rome,  and  with  me  when  I  was 
admitted  to  the  degree  of  doctor,  (so  that  leaving  thee,  I 
should  fear  to  lose  haif  of  my  knowledge),  thou  art  tiie  sweet 
and  only  cause  of  my  most  happy  days.  Life  on  iiccoui.t 
of  thee  is  to  me  dear  and  gay,  since  I  learned  to  know 
mankind. 

When  thou  wert  renowned  for  fashionable  style,  a- 
midst  a  vain  and  gallant  world,  and  hadst  the  merit  of 
being  handsome,  everybody  took  off  his  hat  to  me.  In 
the  vestibules  wherever  I  went  I  used  to  hear  repeated 
"Come  in,  come  in."  Great  noblemen  convened  with 
me  and  servants  called  me  very  illustrious.  I  lived  dear  to  the 
ladies,  but,  alas!  Honor,  kindness,  all  were  addressed  t;) 
thee!  and  now  that  thou  no  more  excitest  easy  pleasure 
on  account  of  thy  shabby  shapelessness,  at  balls,  at  clubs, 
I  hear  said:  "  With  that  coat  you  cannot  pass,"  and  if  I 
go  to  visit  any  one,  he  sends  words:  "  Nobody  at  home.  " 
Everybody  avoids  me,  some  shrewd  ones,  fear  that  I  am 
going  to  ask  a  loan  wherewith  to  have  another  made.  My 
poor  coat  thou  well  seest  that  honors  and  kindnesses  were 
addressed  to  thee.  Yet  to  live  with  thee  is  dear  and  joy- 
ful to  me,  because  I  learned  to  know  mankind. 

Perish  useless  luxury,  nor  let  me  hear  any  more  fashion 
praised  by  fan&tics,  fatal  source  of  laziness  and  vexation. 
True  happiness  lurks  amid  shabby  clothes. 

Guadagnoli. 


McMBlifi:£W^aE»a^)M;u.' 


.,»Wfc-<i^<t^-¥iii^a»«»^  f,;-=!-;  Irfis 


140 

XVII. 


THE  JEANNETTE'S  VICTIMS. 


TO  JOAN  STOCKTON  IIOUOII,  M.  D. 


The  other  day,  in  opening  a  newspaper,  my  eyes  by 
chance  fell  on  the  following  words:  "  the  jkannkttk.  " 
Tlie  Jeannette!  and,  for  a  long  time,  I  remained  thoi  t- 
fuUy  gazing  into  the  space,  and  sad  at  heart. 

My  mind,  carried  far  away,  with  a  hasty  ramble,  had 
already  rejoined  those  men,  those  sailors  lost,  feeble,  tot- 
tering in  the  snow  amidst  the  floating  ice-bergs. 

These  records  daily  M'ritten  by  your  hands  at  the  time 
you  saw  all  hope  of  help  lost,  when  knowing  perfectly 
that  safety  was  impossible,  you  were  obliged  to  look  upon 
your  best  friends  struck  down  by  death,  and  withdraw 
from  you,  after  having  consoled  them  with  a  last  ray  of 
love  and  prayer. 

You  have  not  expressed  in  these  records  all  that  you 
suffered.  Yet  neither  pain  nor  the  infinite  dread  of  such 
daily  sad  agony  could  conquer  your  courage  or  shako 
your  faith,  brave  and  valiant  souls.  Honor  to  you!  Honor 

foreverl 

Thus  all  of  them  yesterday  were  unknown,  but  to-day 
are  famous;  they  remained  great  at  that  dismal  hour,  and 
when  my  heart  searches  for  them  in  their  quiet  rest,  if 
they  appear  to  me,  it  is  only  with  the  forehead  encircled 
by  the  martyr's  wreath. 

Oh,  you  saw  them  drawing  near  to  merciless  death,  and 
yet  you  have  kept  an  ineffable  hope.  Grand  it  was  to  have 
remained  alone  in  such  a  horrid  place  /ar  from  their 
home,  from  their  country,  without  help  and  to  have  believ- 
ed in  God  without  murmuring  and  without  complaining. 


t_  ^ 


my    eyes  by 

JKANNKTTK.  " 

lied  thoi       l- 

ramble,  had 
t,  feeble,  tot- 
rgs. 

3  at  the  time 
iug  perfectly 
to  look  upon 
nd  withdraw 
a  last  ray  of 

all  that  you 
ilread  of  such 
ige  or  shako 
)you!  Honor 

I,  but  to-day 
nal  hour,  and 
quiet  rest,  if 
jad  encircled 

ss  death,  and 
it  was  to  have 
r  from  their 
ohavebeliev- 
complaining. 


117 

Oh,  how  great  were  they!  strugglers!  heroes!  martyrs! 
Let  us  love  the  priceless  offerings  of  these  victims  who 
saciificed  themselves  to  thy   divine   cause,  light  and 

PROGUKSS. 

A.  lit'  Cluxmbrier. 


.^^ 


148 
XVI 1 1. 


DANTE. 


TOTIIK  HON.  JOHN   HKVKUI,KY  UOIUN'rON 


111  uridtt  loiup  Biiol. 

DANTE. 

It  was  evening.  Deprived  of  its  nmgnificence,  the  sun 
now  arrived  at  the  dimmed  liorizon,  was  departing  silent- 
ly, without  strength,  like  an  exiled  king,  who  passes  away 
unknown.  Upright  upon  a  hill  whence  Florence  could 
he  seen,  leaning  on  hia  sword  still  unsheathed  and  bloody, 
a  soldier,  fierce  in  face,  yet  dusty  from  the  battle  scarcely 
ended,  all  of  whose  companions  were  flying  at  random, 
stood,  casting  on  the  distant  city,  a  long  and  painful  look. 
A  deep  sigh  heaved  his  breast,  his  eye  sparkled,  and  his 
voice  made  the  hill  tremble. 

"Vanquished!  exiled  like  a  brigandl  driven  away  by 
the  fate  of  the  battlefield!  without  even  having  the  fortune 
to  die  fighting  beneath  our  walls!  Vanquished!  ^  om 
valley  to  valley  to  drag  along  my  sad  life,  beggir.:  .rom 
half-hearted  friends!— to  eat  the  hard  bread  of  alm^  until 
my  last  hour  comes!  these  are  the  rights  I  have  won! 

"I  must  flv,  then,  far  from  thee,  dear  and  ungrateful 
city— live  and  suffer  far  from  thee  without  hope!  Of  all 
the  misfortunes  which  from  this  moment  will  weigh  on 
me,  the  greatest  will  be  never  to  see  thee  again!  Thou  sun, 
who  art  dying  continue  thy  cours3  and  illumine  still  the 
roof  of  my  ancestors,  and  the  holy  place  where  under  the 
black  stone  are  sleeping  in  peace  my  mother  and  my 
father.  Oh,  why  could  I  not  sleep  near  them!  Thou 
beloved  Beatrice,  who  scarcely  hast  touched  our  world 


:ON 


[■E. 


ence,  the  sun 
)artiug  silent- 
[)  passes  away 
lore  nee  could 
d  and  bloody, 
)attle  scarcely 
f  at  random, 
1  painfullook. 
tied,  and  his 

ven  away  by 
ng  the  fortune 
ished!  ^  om 
beggir ,:  .fom 
I  of  almd  until 
liave  won! 
nd  ungrateful 

hope!  Of  all 
will  weigh  on 
lin!  Thou  sun, 
imine  still  the 
lere  under  the 
other  and   my 

them!     Thou, 
tied  our  world 


149 

while  directing  thy  course  toward  heaven,  in  thy  great 
glory  dost  thou  still  remember  thy  friend?  Vision  so 
short  and  so  beautiful!  Oh,  bright  day,  what  was  thy  to- 
morrow?  Watch  over  me,  radiant,  immortal  one!  Sweet- 
eyed  angel,  cover  me  with  thy  wings!  Happy  star  point 
me  out  my  way!" 

Dante  wua  silent,  and  as  in  the  tempest  the  oak  lowers 
the  pride  of  its  branches,  the  exile  bent  under  the  burden 
of  his  misfortunes,  lowered  his  face,  and,  with  tormented 
soul  and  eyes  full  of  ten ra,  tasted  long  the  bitterness  of 
his  pains.  A  noise  came  to  draw  him  from  his  thoughts, 
a  noise  feeble  at  first,  but  continually  increasing,  a  terrible 
mixture  of  saddened  bells,  of  a  nation's  curse,  of  songs  of 
victors,  and  of  cries  of  the  vanquished. 

This  noise  was  the  uproar  of  the  people  of  Florence. 
Humbled  on  account  of  their  fears,  to   feast  their  victory, 
they  asked  for  vengeance,  and  without  pity  dragged   to 
the  scaffold  many  prisoners  spared  by  the  sword  in  battle. 

Like  a  lion  awakened  by  a  sudden  noise,  which  with 
flashing  eyes  rises  and  pricks  up  his  ears,  the  soldier 
started  at  the  words  which  reached  him  with  the  echo, 
and  coming  out  from  his  sad  repose  for  a  moment  listen- 
ed  to  the  brutal  orgies;  and  then,  with  his  arms  extended 
toward  his  native  city,  thus  addressed  her: 

"  Senseless  populace!  Go  on,  ye  who  curse  the  sacrific- 
ed, and  only  help  the  strongest!  Join  death  to  thy  pleas- 
ure. Mingle  blood  with  the  wine  of  thy  feast.  Laugh  at 
the  execution  prepared  for  those  who,  moved  by  faith, 
have  risked  their  life  for  thee! 

Go  on  with  thy  work,  and  make  haste.  Canst  thou  in 
thy  wisdom,  know  how  many  hours  are  needed  to  change 
joy  into  dread,  and  grief  into  joy,— how  long  last  so  sweet 
a  power,— and  if  the  oppressed  remain  long  on  their 
knees? 


y^ 


150 

"  Without  doubt,  i)UircMl  up  by  tlu'ir  good  fortune, 
triuniphuntaud  i'ullof  bitteruess,  the  A^^n  already  say 
'Our  ndgii  is  sure!'  Thiuking  Ibis  reign  an  easy  task, 
and  the  league  of  the  Bianchi  crushed,  they  strike  our 
remnants,  and  scoff  at  us  with  jest  and  sarcasm. 

"  Oh,  Neri,  know  how  to  maintain  yourselves  kings  of 
the  present.  I  have  the  future,  and  you,  I  dare  to  think, 
will  follow  me  thither.  Ungrateful  history  may  leave  in 
darkness  your  great  exploits.  I,  in  this  terrified  world, 
just  towards  so  great  a  glory,  will  immortalize  you. 

"  Pouring  Infernal  light  on  your  venal  spirits,  I  will, 
portray  you  to  future  ages,  and  will  discover  the  niggard- 
liness, the  jealousy,  the  treachery,  the  hyi)ocrisy  cf  your 
hearts,  and  upon  your  soiled  names  will  throw  torrents 
of  terrible  verses.  Oh,  iuconsiant  and  deceitful  peo}deI 
I  feel  the  day  of  vengeance  coniingi  Tremble!  I  am 
the  supreme  wrath,  bend  thyself  under  its  course,  and 
may  misfortune  break  thy  pride;  every  hour  will  bring  a 
new  pain,  and  thou  shalt  torture  thyself  as  a  man  alive 

in  a  tomb." 

The  night  had  come.  A  blast  of  tempest  roared  pass- 
ing through  the  air;  the  dark  heaven  was  reddening,  the 
arm  of  the  sad  prophet  seemed  to  threaten  the  perverse, 
and  the  inspired  forehead  of  the  divine  poet  was  sorround- 
ed  by  lightning. 

From  nation  to  nation,  from  place  to  place,  untamed, 
uneasy,  full  of  hatred  and  love,  the  great  outlaw  wandered 
twenty  years,  far  from  his  birth-place,  always  dreaming 
of  his  return. 

Until  the  last  hour  he  cherished  the  hope  of  seeing  this 
happy  day.  Death  only  took  pity  on  his  long  suflferings; 
and  the  old  Ghibelin  never  more  saw  Florence,— which 
has  not  even  his  remains  within  her  walls. 

A.  Richard. 


I  ( 


>o(l  fortune, 
already  suy 
I  easy  task, 
r  strike  our 

res  kings  of 
[ire  to  think, 
nay  leave  in 
•ified  world, 
,e  you. 

)irits,  I  will, 
the  niggurd- 
risy  ct  your 
row  torrt'uts 
itful  i>eo}del 
nblel  I  am 
course,  and 
will  bring  a 
a  man  alive 

roared  pass- 
Idunliig,  the 
ho  perverse, 
tras  sorround- 

co,  untamed, 
law  wandered 
y.s  dreaming 

of  seeing  this 
ig  sufferings; 
ence, — which 

ard. 


XIX. 


riTANTOMS. 

TO  WM.  OI.DIIIOHT,   Ar.  A.,  M.  I». 

IIow  many  beautiful  maidona  have  I  soon  die!  It  in 
destiny.  A  prey  is  necessary  to  death.  As  the  grass 
must  fall  under  the  scythe,  so,  in  the- ball,  the  quadrillo 
must  tramp  rosy  youth  under  its  steps.  The  fountain  by 
irrigating  the  valleys  must  diminish  its  waters.  The 
lightning  must  shine,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Envious 
April  with  its  frosts  must  blight  the  applo  tree,  too  proud 
of  its  odoriferous  flowers,  white  as  the  snow  of  the  si>ring. 
Yes,  such  is  life.  The  darkness  of  the  night  follows  the 
dayiight.  and  to  all  will  come  the  eternal  awaking  in 
heaven,  or  the  abys.  A  covetous  crowd  sits  at  tbo  great 
banquet,  but  many  of  the  guests  leave  their  places  empty 
and  depart  before  the  end. 

II. 

IIow  many  have  I  seen  die!  One  was  fair  and  bloom- 
ing.  Another  seemed  enraptured  in  a  celestial  music. 
Another  with  her  arms  uphold  her  bended  head — and  as 
the  bird,  which  in  taking  flight,  breaks  the  branch  on 
which  it  rests — her  soul  had  broken  her  bodv. 

One  pale,  lost,  oppressed  by  sad  delirium,  pronounced 
in  a  low  voice  a  name  forgotten  by  all,  anotlur  dies  away 
as  a  sound  of  a  lyre,  and  another,  expiring  has  on  her 
lips  thd  sweet  smile  of  a  young  angel,  returning  to  heaven. 
All  frail  flowers — dead  as  soon  as  born — halcyons  drown- 
ed with  their  floating  nests;  doves  sent  from  heaven  to 
earth,  who,  crowned  with  grace,  youth  and  love,  numbered 
their  years  by  the  springs. 


DpiuH  VVIiiit?  Already  lying  uikUt  tho  cold  «tono! 
So  many  charming  boingH  deprived  of  voice  and  life!  So 
many  lightH  extinguirthod!  So  many  flowers  fade<I  away! 
Oh,  let  niP  trample  the  dried  leaves  and  lose  myself  in  tho 
depth  of  tho  woods. 

Lovely  phantoms!  It  is  there  in  tho  woods,  when  in 
the  dark  I  am  thinking,  it  is  there  that  by  tnrn  they  como 
to  listen  and  to  spcuik  to  me.  Tho  twilight  at  the  same 
time,  shows  and  veils  their  number,  but  across  the 
branthes  I  perceive  their  glitteriig  eyes. 

My  soul  is  a  true  sister  to  these  beautiful  shadows. 
For  me  and  for  them  life  and  death  have  no  laws — some- 
times I  help  their  steps — sometimes  I  take  their  wings. 
Ineffable  vision  in  which  I  am  dond  ami  they  alive  like 
me.  They  lend  their  forms  to  my  thoughts.  I  soe,  oh, 
yes  I  see  them.  They  beckon  mo  to  come,  and  then, 
hand  in  hand,  they  dance  around  a  grave,  and,  by  degree 
disappearing  softly,  draw  away,  and  then  after  I  think  and 
I  remember. 


III. 

One  especially — an  angel — a  young  Spanish  girl! 
White  hands,  her  breast  swelled  by  innocent  sighs.  Black 
eyes  in  which  shone  the  looks  of  a  Creole;  and  that  in- 
definite charm,  that  fresh  halo,  which  generally  crowns  a 
head  of  fifteen. 

She  died  not  for  love.  No,  love  had  not  yet  brought 
her  joy  nor  sorrow;  nothing  yet  had  made  her  rebel 
heart  beat,  and,  when  everyone,  in  looking  at  her,  could 
not  repress  tho  words,  "  How  beautiful  she  is!  "  none  had 
yet  uttered  secretly  the  word  of  love.  Poor  girl!  She 
loved  dance  too  much — it  was  that  which  killed  her.  The 
charming  ball!  The  ball  full  of  delight!  Her  ashes  still 
tremble  with  a  gentle  movement,  if,  by  chance,  in  a  fair 


cold  «tono  I 
uiul  lifoi  So 
i  fiidi'il  ttwayl 
myself  ill  the 

»(ls,  when   in 

rii  thoy  corao 

at  the  same 

it  across   the 

fill  sliadow'.s. 
laws — some- 
thi'ir  wings. 
ey  alive  like 
i.  I  see,  oh, 
e,  and  then, 
nd,hy  degree 
r  I  think  aud 


Ipanish  girl  I 
sighs.  Black 
;  and  that  in- 
ally  crowns  a 

yet  brought 
ule  her  rebel 
ut  her,  could 
is! "  none  had 
or  girl  I  She 
lied  her.  The 
ler  ashes  still 
ice,  in  a  fair 


If).'} 

night  a  whit(>  cloud  dances  around  the  creHcent  of  the  sky. 

She  loved  dance  too  much!  At  the  apjiroach  of  a  festi- 
val— three  days  before,  she  was  continually  thinking 
and  dreaming  of  i( — and  for  three  nights  ladies,  music, 
dancers  never  tired,  tronblo<l  her  miiul  in  her  sleep,  and 
laughed,  and  sliouted  at  her  pillows. 

Jewels,  necklaces,  silk  girdles  of  waving  reflections, 
tissues  lighter  than  beo'^  wings,  festoons  and  ribbons  to 
buy  a  p"lace,  all  those  things  occupied  her  fancy. 

Once  Jio  festival  begun — full  of  gladness  she  comes 
with  her  joyful  sisters,  furling  and  unfurling  the  fan  in 
her  fingers, — then  t  its  amongst  the  silk  dresses,  and  her 
heart  bursts  in(  glad  '  'ains  with  the  many-voiced 
orchestriv.  What  a  true  »  .  ight  was  it  to  look  at  her  when 
she  was  dancing!  Wcr  ^^fn'inent  tossed  its  blue  spangles; 
lier  great  dark  *■■  ^  sparkled  uw'  :  the  black  mantle  like 
a  pair  of  stars  i  nde  •  a  dark  cloud.  She  v/as  all  daucc  and 
laughter  and  mad  joy.     Child! 

Wo  admire  her  in  our  sad  leisure  moments,  sad,  because 
never  at  the  ball  our  hearts  were  open,  and  in  these  balls, 
as  the  dust  flies  on  the  silk  dress,  weariness  is  mixed 
with  pleasure.  She,  instead,  carried  by  the  waltzes  or  the 
j)olkas,  was  going  up  and  down,  hardly  breathing,  excit- 
ing herself  with  the  sound  of  the  renowned  flute,  with 
the  flowers,  with  the  golden  candlesticks,  with  the  attract- 
ive feast,  with  the  music  of  the  voices,  with  the  iiois«  of 
thr  =>teps. 

"V!  It  happiness  for  her  to  move,  lost  in  the  crowd,  to 
feel  her  own  senses  multiply  in  the  dance,  so  as  not  to  be 
able  to  know  is  she  were  being  conveyed  by  a  cloud,  or 
flying  leaving  the  earth,  or  treading  upon  a  waving  sea. 

At  the  approach  of  the  dawn,  she  was  obliged  to  depart, 
aud  to  wait  on  the  treshold  till  ths  silken  mantle  was 
thrown    over  her  shoulders.     Only  then,  this  innocent 


v' 


(lancer,  chilled,  felt  the  morning  hreeze  play  over  litr 
hare  neck. 

Sad  morrow  those  following  a  hall  I  Farewell  dances 
and  dresses,  and  child-like  laughter.  In  hei,  the  ohsti- 
nate  cough  succeeded  the  songs;  the  fever  with  its  hectic 
color  followed  the  rosy  and  lively  delights,  and  the  hright 
eyes  were  changed  into  lack  lustre  eyes. 

IV. 

She  is  dead!  Fifteen  years  old.  beautiful,  happy,  ador- 
ed! Dead  corning  out  from  a  ball  which  immersed  all 
of  us  in  mourning,  dead,  alas!  And  death,  with  chilly 
hands  wrested  her  yet  dressed  from  the  arms  of  a  mother 
mad  with  anguish,  to  lay  her  to  sleep  in  the  grave. 

To  dance  at  other  balls  she  was  ready,  death  was  in 
haste  to  take  possession  of  such  a  beautiful  body,  and  the 
same  ephemeral  roses  which  had  crowned  her  head  and 
which  blossomed  yesterday  at  a  feast  faded  in  a  tomb. 

V. 

The  ui\happy  mother,  ignorant  of  her  fate,  had  placed 
so  deep  love  on  this  frail  stalk;  to  have  watched  her  suf- 
fering babyhood  so  long,  and  to  have  wasted  so  many 
nights  in  lulling  her  when  she  cried,  a  tiny  baby  in  her 
cradle.  To  what  purpose?  Now  the  girl  sleeps  under  the 
coffin  lid  and,  if  in  the  grave  where  we  have  left  her,  some 
beaudful  winter's  night  a  festival  of  the  dead  should 
awaken  her  cold  corpse,  a  ghost,  with  dreadful  smile,  in- 
stead of  hi?  mother,  will  preside  at  her  toilette,  and  will 
tell  her,  "Now  is  the  time,"  and  with  a  kiss  freezing  her 
blue  lips,  will  pass  through  iier  hair  the  knotted  fingers, 
of  his  skeleton  hand,  and  will  lead  her  trembling  to  the 
ethereal  chorus,  flitting  in  darkness,  and,  at  the  same  time 
on  the  gray  horizon  the  moon  will  shine  pale  and    full 


play  over  litr 

irewell  dances 
lei,  the  obsti- 
vvith  its  hectic 
and  the  bright 


I,  happy,  ador- 
immerscd  all 
h,  with  chilly 
;ns  of  a  mother 
le  grave, 
death  was  in 
I  body,  and  the 
her  head  and 
[  in  a  tomb. 


ite,  had  placed 
tched  her  suf- 
isted  so  many 
y  baby  in  her 
leeps  under  the 
e  left  her,  some 
B  dead  should 
dful  smile,  in- 
lette,  and  will 
S3  freezing  her 
notted  fingers, 
ambling  to  the 
i  the  same  time 
pale  and    full 


axi.(\.  the  rainbow  of  the  night  will  color,  with  an  ()});il   re- 
flection,  the  silver  clouds. 


Young  maidens  who  are  invited  by  the  gay  ball,  with 
its  seductive  jileasures,  think  of  this  Spanish  girl.  She 
was  gay,  and  with  a  merry  hand  was  gathering  the  roses 
of  life,  pleasure,  youth  and  lovel  Poor  girl!  Hurried 
from  feast  to  feast  slie  was  sorting  the  colors  of  this 
beautiful  nosegay.  How  soon  all  vanished!  Like  Ophe- 
lia, carried  away  by  the  river,  she  died  gathering  flowers. 

V.  Hugo. 


'J'    IF 


XX. 


TO  MISS 


DAVID. 

SS  SUSIK.  K.  WlTHFORl),  (CHICAGO,  ILL.) 


f 


To  contend  with  tha  giant  Goliath,  David  had  only  his 
sling,  hut  at  the  bottom  of  his  boyish  heart  he  had  also  a 
strong  faith.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that  in  order  to  save 
Israel,  God  would  figth  for  him. 

Calm  and  easy  in  mind,  he  set  forth  against  the  power- 
ful  Philistine  who,  with  haughty  and  insolent  look,  smil- 
ed  at  his  youthful  appearance,  at  the  same  time  scoffing 
at  the  Lord  who  had  chosen  David  to  save  his  people. 

But  the  boy  whom  God  directed,  with  a  steady  hand 
and  by  a  simple  throw,  inflicted  on  the  colossus  a  deadly 
wound,  and  thus  the  Lord  was  pleased  to  deliver  Israel. 

In  the  same  manner  as  David,  Thou,  oh,  Lord,  -allest 
U3  to  great  battles.  To  succeed  in  them  in  a  way  credit- 
able to  Thee,  make  us  ^ithful  as  David,  and  then  every 
one  would  perceive  that  the  Lord  is  with  us  as  He  was 
with  Israel. 

And  if  evil  sorrounds  us,  and  if  it  become  stronger  than 
ourselves,  then,  kneeling,  we  shall  implore  Thee,  AVho 
rejectest  none,  and  then  in  answer  to  our  prayers,  Thou 
shalt  fight  for  us. 

A.  de  Chambrier. 


I 
1  ■,- 


XXI. 

THE  TWIN  SPIRITS. 


JO,  ILL.) 

d  had  only  his 
t  he  had  also  a 
in  order  to  save 

linst  the  power- 
'entlook,  sinil- 
)  time  scoffing 
)  his  people, 
a  steady  hand 
lossus  a  deadly 
deliver  Israel. 
I,  Lord,   ?allest 

a  way  credit- 
ind  then  every 

us  as  He  was 

le  stronger  than 

)re  Thee,  Who 

prayers,  Thou 

nbrier. 


'  TO  MISS  NORA  HILLAUV,  TKACHER  OF  MUSIC. 

I- 

The  sun  was  near  the  end  of  his  journey,— thq  air  wiis 
filled  with  mystery,— the  violets  send  their  odor  to  God,— 
the  murmur  of  the  stream  was  more  lively,— all  creation 
seemed  to  repeat  the  words  of  love,  and  my  heart  was 
seized  by  a  pious  feeling  which  oweetly  suggested  prayer. 

Prostrating  myself  before  the  rustic  altar  of  the  queen 
of  heaven,  a  divine  pity  moved  my  soul  and  I  wept  and 
prayed. 

11. 

Whilst  to  the  throne  of  the  Almighty,  like  a  cloud  of 
incense,  joined  to  the  sublime  austere  voice  of  the  organ 
rose  the  prayer  of  the  worshippers  so  dear  to  Him,  sud- 
denly I  heard  a  sweet,  strong,  harmonious  voice  which 
troubled  my  heart  and  forced  me  to  weep. 

Raising  my  eyes  there  appeared  before  me  a  young 
orator,  beautiful  and  divine  in  appearance  who  struck 
my  heart. 

III. 

For  many  and  many  days  already  the  fair  young  man 
had  turned  and  returned  around  my  house,  looked  at  me 
and  smiled,  and  every  day  I  saw  his  sweet  image;  blush- 
ing, I  too  had  answered  his  salute,— and  each  time  he 
came  I  lost  my  peace. 

God  grant  that  he  may  understand  me  as  I  understand 
himl  And  if  he  understands  me  and  will  give  me  his 
heart  I  will  adore  him  with  an  intense  love. 


158 


IV. 

He  loves,  yes,,  he  loves  me!  Oh, celestial  delight! — In- 
effable joy  I — Supreme  gladness!  No,  this,  is  not  a  dream, 
he  has  told  me  and  his  words  are  words  of  divine  consent. 
Yes,  my  beloved,  I  will  love  thee,— to  thee  I  will  open  the 
most  hidden  recesses  of  my  heart,— entirely  thine  will  be 
this  my  living  soul.  Sweetly,  sweetly  a  breath  of  love 
slighty  touches  my  face.  He  has  looked  at  me  and  placed 
on  my  finger  a  ring,— a  glittering  circle  of  gold. 

V. 

See,  see  how  the  torches  shine!  How  beaut iml  is  the 
altar  festally  adorned!  How  many  garlands!  How  much 
incense,  and  how  many  lights!  Oh,  what  a>»olemn  funct- 
ion is  this  one!  How  bright  a  day,  and  how  the  heaven 
smiles!  I  will  adorn  ray  head  with  the  nuptial  crown. 
I  will  appear  beautiful  under  my  veil.  Already  the 
harmonious  trumpet  tunes  joyful  songs.  Oh,  my  faithful 
one!  dost  thou  not  hear  the  people's  shouts. — "Hurrah! 
for  the  bride!  " 

VI. 

"  Thou  art  married. "  So  said  the  priest, — the  old  man, 
thou  knowest,  who  loves  me  so  much!  Art  thou  then 
mine?  Wilt  thou  be  always  at  my  side?  Is  then  ac- 
complished the  hope  of  my  heart?  But  tell  me,  dear,  wliy 
so  sadly  lookest  thou  at  the  ground,  and  sighest?  What 
thought  comes  to  abate  the  course  of  our  joy?  Thinkest 
thou  perhaps  of  thy  mother  whom  thou  hast  left  alone? 
Wo  will  go  to  her,  but  do  not  weep  any  more. 

VIT. 

Three  days  are  passed,  and  i.e  has  not  returned!  Al- 
ready  three  days,  three  eternal  days!  and  I  am  dying!    Uy 


1  delight!— In- 
13  not  a  dream, 
divine  consent. 
I  will  open  the 
ly  thine  will  be 
breath  of  love 
b  me  and  placed 
•  gold. 


eautiml  is  the 
^sl  How  much 
a  solemn  funct- 
ow  the  heaven 
nuptial  crown. 
Already  the 
Oh,  my  faithful 
ats. — "Hurrah! 


I, — the  old  man, 
Art  thou  then 
?  Is  then  ac- 
1  rae,  dear,  why 
sighest?  What 
oy?  Thinkest 
last  left  alone? 
ore. 


returned!     Al- 
am  dying!    My 


159 

treasure  has  told  me  nothing.  At  dawn  he  kissed  me, 
and  quickly  went  away.  Has  he  been  to  console  his 
mother?  But  then  he  ought  to  return  without  delay! 
Pray,  bright  stars,  bring  him  back  to  me.  W.lhout  my 
beloved  I  am  failing,  and  I  will  preserve  alive  for  him  the 
only  pride  of  my  life,  with  whom  I  fell  in  so  great  a  love. 

VIII. 

Alas!  What  are  these  melancholy  voices, — this  sad 
sound  of  bells, — this  grief  which  invades  all  tlie  passers 
by?  What  wants  this  yet  distant  crowd?  Somebody  is 
dead  .  .  .  .and  is  accompanied  to  his  home  by  weeping  faces! 
Alas!  is  it  true  this  my  horrid  vision?  No,  it  cannot  be! 
Eternal  God,  Thou  art  not  an  unjust  punisher!  My  mind 
is  raving,  and  my  thoughts  are  food  for  my  sorrows. 

IX. 

Yes,  my  love  is  dead!  The  colored  cheeks  are  now 
pale  and  the  heart  is  silent.  The  refulgent  pupil  which 
before  used  to  shine  with  divine  ardor  is  now  closed.  God, 
why  hast  now  taken  him,  when  scarcely  thou  hadst  grant- 
ed me  his  sublime  love?  Like  a  little  flower,  which  in 
the  winter  appears  waving,  and  soon  after  is  leafless  and 
dies,  thou,  my  sweet-heart,  hast  passed  away. 


I  am  wretched,  sad  and  alone,  because  they  have  taken 
away  my  treasure,  burying  him  under  the  green  sod  not 
far  from  thy  altar.  Virgin  Mary.  They  have  laid  on  the 
cofFin  a  few  flowers,  singing  pious  songs.  Prepare  for  me 
in  the  same  place  the  nuptial  bed.  I  come  to  thee,  my 
beloved,  only  comfort  of  my  heart.  United  we  shall 
spread  our  wings  on  the  celestial  shore,  the  everlasting  love. 

At  the  last  tollijig  of  the  sad  bell,  well   known   to  the 


J-.-^.'-t^.t^rtli-i'*  ■-■•v'3-'''^ifc'iJ-*^^^^Hi 


JOO 

village  people,  when  the  night  has  come,  and  the  honest 
prayer  of  tlie  peasant  singing  to  the  Virgin,  ascends  to 
the  spheres,  when  in  the  lieaven  raises  the  placid  moon, 
when  the  breezes  become  milder,  and  all  around  the  uni- 
verse is  silent,  adoring  the  Creator,  when,  on  the  branches 
the  feathered  birds  tranquilly  hide  their  harmonious 
throaths  in  their  winged  arms,  and  in  the  sky  the  most 
distant  worlds  reappear,  amidst  the  light  vapors  of  the 
churchyard,  a  flame  towers  alone  and  trembling  for  a 
while,  finally  rests  and  waits. 

Not  long  after,  a  sad  and  harmonious  song  is  heard,  and 
in  the  meanwhile  one  can  see  alike  flame  coming  toward 
the  first,  and  both  mingled  in  one  embrace,  sweetly  diss, 
appeal,  like  twins,  destined  to  the  same  fate,  who  felt 
intense  joy  in  meeting  each  other. 

The  firm  belief  of  the  people  is  that  the  apparition  is 
the  souls  of  the  two  unhappy  ones  who  prematurely  died 
in  such  great  grief,  and,  on  account  of  this,  tlie  believer 
pained  for  so  great  a  misfortune,  bows,  and  weeping,  says 

AVE  MAllIA. 

C.  A.  Morpnrgo. 


nd  the  honest 
;in,  ascends  to 
)  placid  moon, 
iround  the  uiii- 
)u  the  branches 
ir  harmonious 
}  sky  the  most 
Vapors  of  the 
:ombling  for  a 

ig  is  heard,  and 

coming  toward 

e,  sweetly  diss. 

fate,  who   felt 

e  apparition  is 
■ematurely  died 
is,  tlie  believer 
1  weeping,  says 


■pnrgo. 


DOTTOR    T.   ROSSINI, 


MEDICO-CHIRURQO. 

Vnrio:    a08   WAHIIINttTUN  MTHKRT. 


Ore  (li  Ufflcio :  Dalle  ore  8,  alie  9  a.  in.      Dalle  ore  2  alle  4  p.  in. 


A.  PRIANI   QUILICI, 

Levatrice. 

I'AVBBATA     nell'Kuno      tHT*      itHlla      lU      I/MIVKHIIITA'     dl 

UBNOVA. 

Coneultazioni  iulle  Malattie  Uterine, 

CURB     SPBOIALI 

deU'Itterizia  e  Pebbri  Terzane 
DomlClllO  732,  VIA  VALLEJO,  fra  Powelle  Stockton, 
Ore  d'Ufficio  dalle  1.30,  alle  3  p.  in. 


Farmcicsia    Jtafiama 


1 

JFarmaGivta. 


N.   1600  VIA  STOCKTON,  opposta  «lla  Sala  Bersaglieri. 


aboratono  m  preparazioni  Chimiche.    Specialta'  Italian*,  Americane 

•  Francesi.     Unico  preparatore  dell'  Euxik  di  Wiggers  per  tutte 

le  affezioni  catarrali.    Sciroppo  di  Eucaliptus  Estratto 

composto  di  Salsapariglia. 


flledieoxChifutigo, 

610  Mabkkt  8TBEBT,  San  Francihco,  Cal. 


PACIFIC     CONSOLIDATED    PASTE    CO. 


Y.  RAVENNA  &  GO., 

Manufacturers  of 

MAOCHERONI,  *  TEBDIICELLl,  *  FABIXA,  «  ETC. 

421-423  Battbby  St.  meab  Washimoton. 


,,  Jii,  ;'.-„i ,  ^.^  „;^.^._»  ^^..^v^' 


^^ 


•f%% 


^^■^ 


Dr.  c.  barsotti, 

S|ip('litIiHtH  por  If  iiihIiiI(Ii>  (lrll«>  (1011111' 
EX-CHIUUROO  del  ltc(;i  Onpednll  ili  Lticcu 

Ukficio,  007  VIA  Wahiiinuton.  Kkhidkn/a,  911  Hhoahway. 

Dalle  ore  8  alle  9  aiit :  dalle  i.  alU>  4  pom.  I>alle  \l  m  alle  l  pom 


DR.   VINCENZO   VACCARI, 

MKUICO-CIIl  ItUllGO, 

LAUREATO  DELL-UNIVKUSITA'  DI  UKNOVA. 

611  Via  WuHhiiigtoH.  Officio  dol  Dr.  PESCIA. 

Ored'Ufflcio,  dalle  alle  9  a.m.   Dalle  12  alle  2  p.m.  o  dalle  7  Rile  8 p.  m. 


DOTTORE  G.    PESCIA, 
meoico-cHiRURGO, 

Socleta'  Italiana  di  .Mutim  Bonetlicnza,  Coinpagniii  BerHutilieri  e 
Garibaldi  ra,  Austrian  Benevolent  Hociety,  Societa'  Cacciatori  delli-  Alpi, 
Societa'  Opemia  e  Societa'  dei  I'eaeatori. 

UFFICIO  E  DOMICILIO,  611  VIA  WASHINGTON. 

61t  WASHINGTON  STREET,    NEAR  MONTGOMERY 

The  Theatrical  Shoemaker  of  Sm  Francisco,  made  15  pairs  of  (iennine 
Morocco  Leather  Shoes  for  Miilambark's  Tourage  Arabs  when  playing 
ill  this  city.  They  use  them  in  their  act,  and  were  ho  well  pleased  with 
them  that  they  orilorod  another  all-arninnl.  Just  as  we  do  when  we 
like  something.  P\kdini  is  an  Artist  in  Shoes.  A  large  portion  of  the 
B'age  shoes  made  here  are  turned  out  at  his  establishment. 


E.  0.  PALMIERI 


-^i  J .     F.     r  U  <3  A  Z  I     A.     O  O . ,  K— 

No.  5  .WontKomcry  Ave.  San  Francisco,  C»l. 
FkclBc  CoMt  Agency  ot  the   COMPAGNIE  GENERAL  TRANSATLANTIQUE 
Direct  fT-oiii  New  York,  Havre  ond.  Keturn 

ALSO  AOKNTS  OF  TIIK 

VmON  PACIFIC,  CHICAGO.  ROCK  ISLAND  and  PENNSYLVANIA  BAILR0AD8 
Drafts  on  Great  dritain,  France.  Italy,  Switzerland,  Germany  and  Austria. 

Tickets  by  any  Steamship  l,ine  to  and  from  all  points  of  liurope  at  Lowest  Kates 


■A-i? 


A 


^y^Kft^fk  »l 


i  Liiccu 

911  Hboahway. 
ti.  alle'ipom 

10  VA. 

Dr.  PESCIA. 

ille  7  alle  8  p.  m. 


lia  BerHHjilieri  • 
iatori  dellc  Alpl, 

[GTON. 


rOOMERY 

|)ixirH  of  (ienuine 
1)8  whuii  pliiyintj 
veil  pleaHi'd  with 
we  <1u  wlien  we 
;e  portion  of  the 
ent. 

E.  0.  PALMIERI 


Franclfico,  V.tA. 
kNSATLANTIQUE 

Iteturn. 

ANIA  SAILBOAOS 

stria. 

r  Europe  at  Lowest  Kates 


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